The District
by Clef Longfellow
Summary: The district is a hard place, a ghetto caged behind a concrete wall that none can escape. Carson is doing everything in his power to keep himself and his twin brother, Kurt, alive in this hell hole that the government has given up on. Blaine Anderson is the youngest cop to make the undercover unit. Can they join forces to change the world behind the wall? AU, Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: I'm supposed to be taking a break after Cheap Trick, but alas... I couldn't stay away. I was inspired while watching this amazing French action movie called **District B13** which was adrenaline inducing, madness and plain fun to watch.

I've kicked around the idea of featuring Carson Phillip's from Struck By Lightning in a fic here and there and suddenly was attacked by the muse monster while watching the flick mentioned above. It is definitely an AU to the fullest extent of being an AU. Carson will be one of the main characters (but trust when I say he is not like the Carson we know - like, at all. Um, basically erase in your mind what you saw him as before and prepare for a makeover). Blaine is the other main featured character. He too will be different, in the sense of being badass and completely less dapper, as in not dapper AT ALL... and anyone who knows me, knows I'm not usually into Blaine in terms of writing him but he just seemed to fit in this case and well... why not? I might have fun and want to write more of him, we'll see.

And also of course, Kurt will be a big part as well. I love me some Kurt! It's a Carson and Kurt being twin brothers fic with a twist. And there will be romance and not between the brothers...

This one will be a tad different from my usual, meaning WAY less morbid, lol. It'll be more focused on action (which is new for me since I'm usually more dialogue driven) and generally more fast paced meaning a quicker, shorter fic. Least that's my intention. I have an outline due to the movie but not sure where or how this will turn out since I'm the puppeteer. **Disclaimer**: Story is both inspired by and based on the movie District B13, I don't own the characters (which are all Glee characters) except the one's I made up. The **M rating **is due to language, violence, drug use, that kind of shit. All that said... Enjoy!

* * *

He was called Goolie to most in the district.

An enigma that perpetuated the scent of stale death; swift, crude, undeniable.

Dustin Goolsby had the district nestled firmly in his iron grip, squeezing it into submission and extinguishing any flare of hope for better underneath the heel of his power and greed.

He controlled everything behind the wall. Not to mention every known official or authority beyond the wall that could possibly do something to alleviate the stain of Goolie's hold, and develop the project into a livable, promising property. They were all in his pocket. The police, the mayor... all of them. Paid in full, and always keen to turn an oblivious eye to the comings and goings of Goolsby's empire.

Things had changed over time. Government corrupted into mere representations of which gang offered the highest pay out. Cities developed into a clash culture of warring projects. Territories were marked, and the worst of the worst areas, caged off behind towering concrete and barbed wire; keeping them "safe" from themselves. It was known as the wall, and every project area or district as they've become known through time, a settlement festering behind it like a dark creature caged against its will.

Carson wasn't born a fool. His father, Burt Hummel, would always blame his late mother for that, a running joke over the years that left a lingering smile on Carson's lips that was completely rare in the present time.

He knew from the moment he received his first bloody nose for simply walking down the street with name brand sneakers - shoes that his father had to negotiate and work extra shifts at the factory just to procure for his sixth birthday - that the world behind the wall where they resided, was simply war. Day in and day out, absolute fucking war.

The blood dribbling steadily over his six year old lip, the tears burning his cerulean eyes, his shoeless feet clad in hole-worn socks, and the cutting laughter of the five boys who were mocking him, shouting out their intentions to make him their bitch and steal his next pair, enough to erase any belief that he could be different than what he had observed of his environment over time. He knew even at an age where naivity was supposed to be a blessing, that he would have to become something pragmatic, cunning and to an extent cold in order to survive this pit.

There was the hypes, doped up and veins heavy with Goolsby's product. The saints, the ironic name sake for whores selling their bodies like the inside of their thighs promised sustenance rivaling the corner store. And worst of all, the gangs. Members wouldn't be a proper term for it.

They were simply known as soldiers. And they were... loitering outside of buildings packing artillery from bulletproof vests to automatic machine guns like a trained army. The power was in their numbers, and Goolsby's name and influence.

In the district, those were damn near the only directions left to ascertain; the only slices of lifestyle allotted in the projects: snorting, whoring, or fighting.

The city stench was thick with gun smoke, and a tangible loss that seeped into your bones like marrow. And Goolsby was the trigger happy smoker, casting his depracating fog over the entire district; district B13, a place that God himself wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.

The one school that was present, was nothing more than a conjoint prison, cattling the population of children from the projects into a boiling pot of gang affiliation, trauma, and an unabridged dousing of any hope for actually learning useful information other than solidifying that they had no real chance at life; not as a child behind the wall anyway.

Carson Hummel, a born loner was determined to be more than a punching bag, or some runner for whatever thug had threatened him into risking himself.

He had to be smarter, had to be more. But not just for himself.

He'd lost his dad just after his twelfth birthday. A sudden and fatal heart attack swooping in and collecting his father like an overdue bill payment.

He would've dropped out of school completely back then.

If it hadn't been for his brother that is... his twin brother, Kurt.

He had to be more in order for his brother to make it too; a diligent presence and source of protection.

Carson was only seventeen minutes older as it were, but he took his role as the eldest seriously in every capacity; always had.

And Kurt was just... well, different. He always had been really; an oddity amongst a culture of beasts who would claw out their own eyes just for a hit.

He was soft spoken, caring, good-natured, loved to sing...

He was everything that wasn't meant to be confined behind the neutral gray pallette of life offered within the projects.

Carson learned very quickly that physical violence was a necessity.

He trained with an ex-martial artist who used to help train young up and comers at the police academy - a man most in the neighborhood had wrote off as a wasted vagabond who'd lost his mind long ago, begging for scraps and living on any corner he could for shelter.

Carson remembered, sometime around his third year of school, seeing the man called Cyril, huddled in a tight ball on the curb as he trekked the long way home from school; several teens making a point to verbally pester the old coot as a means of entertainment. It wasn't until one of them had attempted to steal his tattered blanket from around his shoulders, that the old man had grabbed the thin wrist, twisted it until a resounding snap was heard, and ordered the rest to bugger off before they all scampered away, the broken one trailing behind with tears glazing his dirty face.

It was then that Carson had made a pact to steal food for him in exchange for lessons.

From the ages of eight to fourteen, he spent many an afternoon running errands, which basically translated to him stealing what he could and getting his ass knocked in the dirt by a toothless beggar.

But it paid off, because he'd quickly built himself a reputation, one built around him knocking out teeth and taking out a group of opponents simultaneously and quite alone; one that peeked the interest of several gang leaders.

He didn't fall in line and engage in being recruited. He simply used his cunning to remain reclusive, recruiting several of his own people, but refusing involvement regarding the drug trade or prostitution ring.

It was through this reputation that he was able to keep himself and Kurt alive in the cest pool of bilge and destitute life, doing what he could to pay bills and keep them sheltered.

Most considered Kurt to be a fluttering faggot, but not one person who'd grown up around their block would dare say it to Carson's face. Not these days. They'd learned that scorning his brother was like scorning him personally, and it was better for all involved to refute the urge to goade the strange figure.

Even if Kurt was an easy target - what with his effeminate mannerisms and high pitched tone, pale skin stretched over a lithe, delicate build, his penchant toward tight fitting jeans and a genuine grace that didn't seem to belong on any woman or man living in the district.

He and Kurt were the same in terms of their physical features - mostly concentrated within their face. They were identical after all. But the sameness stopped there. Carson had developed a more muscled physique, taut lines riding through his abdomen and cutting across his shoulders, though his skin was just as fair as his younger brother's. His brunette hair was much shorter, tossled and unkempt, while Kurt's was brushed off of his face in a rather fashionable coif that only further contributed to others inclination to label him a pole hopper - which coincidentally, Kurt in fact is.

Carson doesn't have a problem with it. He's always known his brother was different, and him loving men intimately only strengthened his resolve that Kurt's uniqueness was too bright and all-consuming to be appreciated behind the wall. This being another attribute that sets them apart as Carson has made a habit of finding the company of women most enticing. None worthy of keeping long term, but to get his dick wet occasionally.

He knows that Kurt has been sexually active as well, a thought he doesn't like to dwell on too long. Mostly because he knows that none in the district would risk being open about it, and Kurt had probably only served as a quick fix of flesh under tight wraps, unworthy of having some sort of legitimate relationship - if such a thing even existed behind the wall. He knew those encounters had done more to harden his brother than he'd ever admit, and it saddened him grievously to think of him being used that way.

Some had joked that Kurt should just take up whoring. Some also ended up nursing a broken jaw at the implication by Carson's hand.

Carson made ends meet with his thievery and eventually with creating a lowly, but legal in their parts, gambling trade.

Eventually Carson had dropped out of school, like eighty percent of the population tended to do, and focused on managing his territory; their apartment building making a prime location for the numbers ring and for harboring stolen goods from car parts to household electronics.

To his credit, Carson never told Kurt what he did, and Kurt never asked.

Kurt became a clerk at the local grocery store after graduating, and found a way for his natural warmth to be cultivated. It wasn't long after that the school had officially been closed down; the last government building standing after the loss of the postal offices and the police stations within the area.

Carson knew it made Kurt happy to be working there, but he didn't miss the longing gleaming within the depths of blue. He knew, despite Kurt's constant attempts at reassurance, that the other boy yearned for better, that he was meant for greater things than this life.

The way he could make people light up with a simple smile was a rare quality in such a place as the district.

Quite simply put, Kurt was meant to go beyond the wall.

But the truth was, it wasn't that simple. It was anything but, in reality.

Everyone born behind the wall, was bound by law to remain there. Like tagged sheep, corralled into a sweat-box until their number was finally up. Any attempted escapee's were arrested and sanctioned into a facility that some claim made the projects look like paradise. That or they were gunned down and written off as just another faceless number.

So as it were, they were trapped.

Carson was nineteen years old, and already destined to die in purgatory.

Until it hit him. The idea that would change it all.

If he couldn't get out, why couldn't he change it from within?

He'd gotten in contact with an old colleague of Cyril's who owed the warped bastard some favors. He counted on that to be enough.

The plot would begin with Carson's trademark skills as a thief, and end by way of a pact made with Captain Druegen of the police force.

He was going to put a stop to it all. And it all came down to one thing, or rather his act against one man: taking down the Goolie, himself.

An insane notion that now felt as necessary and inevitable as breathing.

So fast forwarding past two months of careful planning and communication, Carson starts to second guess his own lunacy as he currently stares down at a bathtub full of packaged dope - at least half a million dollars worth, stacked in neat bricks.

He hears the stomping, the sounds of rushed movement hurdling up the staircase and knows that his men that were watching the main entrance were already dead, and that Goolie's soldiers were on their way to greet him with smoking barrels as way of saying 'hello'.

Carson feels the panic start to erupt, easily seeping through his sense of calm. He starts frantically cutting open the bricks with his switch blade, dumping the powdery substance into a white heap and washing it down the drain with hurried sweeps.

But it's taking too long; Goolie's hounds were only mere moments away. He couldn't get rid of it all by the time they would overtake him. So he grabs a gaggle of cleaning products from underneath the sink, spilling the contents of several bottles over the open packets, subsequently turning the powder into a contaminated sludge.

He throws the last of a bleach bottle into the tub just as a gun shot bursts through the door, splintering part of the wood. Carson huddles behind the freestanding tub, crawling over the floor and hiding alongside the door, waiting with a hammering heart to make his move.

"We know you're in there Hummel! And we know that you got something that belongs to us! You come out now, I promise on my word as Big D, I won't cut your balls off and feed 'em to you."

There's muffled chuckling sounding just outside the door. Carson exhales, then silently clicks open his switch blade. He closes his eyes, blocking out the thundering beats of his own heart, pushing the thoughts of Kurt aside, and focuses on the feel of his own being - making quick work of inhabiting his strategic mind.

After a mumbled exchange, he distinctly overhears the audible sound of gun's cocking, and shifting bodies likely readying themselves for attack.

"A'right you fuckin' coward! I warned you!"

The voice softens again, the sound of counting, and then a sudden outburst of, "GO!" breaks apart the silence, along with the door, which was bashed open in one fell swoop.

* * *

**A/N**: And yes... I'm leaving you hanging like that, lol. So... thoughts? I'll need the feedback to, A.) know if I should continue, and B.) know if I should continue. And guess who Big D is? ... and no not from Potter. Thanks very much to you all!


	2. Chapter 2

"GO!"

Two bodies burst through the door after knocking it completely off its hinges.

Carson, using the edge of the door as leverage, clears the heads of the two stumbling fucks while quickly sticking the switchblade in the back of the closest one barreling through; both men spilling forward from their own momentum, as he lands on his feet just outside the doorway.

A man with dreadlocks raises his gun to fire, but is halted by a sickening 'crunch', his nose spurting blood at the swift elbow connecting with it, Carson then sweeping his feet out from under him and rushing at the other henchman aiming at him with what he deduced to be a glock.

Carson kneed the glock wielder in the stomach, using the same leg to hook around and kick him in the back of the head, the guy loosing his footing and slamming face first onto the dusty hall floor.

As he turns on his heel and rounds the corner, he overhears the same deep voice bellow, "keep him alive! Goolie wants him for himself!"

He takes off at full speed, kicking another hound who'd been rushing up the stairs square in the chest, sending the man flying over the rail, careening and crashing against each railing on the way down like a boneless rag doll.

Carson knew exactly where he needed to go. He just had to make it there. He knows this building - hell this entire district, like the back of his hand. It had always been his makeshift playground; a concrete jungle gym that he'd memorized in grave detail with every excursion and venture through gritty back alleys and across asphalt terrain uncharted by most.

He pounded down several more flights until he was met by a small group of hounds rushing him; so he cuts down the opposite hallway with several of the men hot on his heels.

Carson pushes himself, noting the door ahead as definitely being locked but for the slim window lining the top of the door. As he bolts forward, he grabs hold of the pipes interlining the ceiling, swinging forward and crashing through the thin window in an explosion of glass.

He smiles to himself at the successful move that ill calculated in the very slightest, would've left him shredded into a bloody mass, or even helplessly stuck for the picking given the narrow quality of the window opening.

The grunts of pain and loud thumps herding against the otherside of the door signal that the hounds had rammed into it, finding out the hard way that it was in fact locked, and thankfully made of reinforced steel.

Carson isn't able to celebrate long before he see's at least four more running toward him down the corresponding hall. He huffs, turning on his heel and rushing into a thankfully unlocked apartment, the old couple inside starting at his sudden appearance, clutching to each other while lying in bed watching a tiny television, blurred and lined with squiggly shit that rendered it practically useless. Carson flings open the bedroom window leading to the fire escape outside, sliding down the ladder as if he wasn't holding it at all, and falling onto a rusted escape below.

He tries the window there, which is locked, so he wastes no time leaping off of the terrace entirely, and using his upper body strength to grab onto the drainage pipes running along the building's edge. He climbs up the metal like a pale spider, jumping from pipe to pipe, until he secures himself back on the landing of a main exit.

Pushing open the door, he runs to the end of the hall only to catch a glimpse of more men crawling up the adjacent stairwell. He tears up the narrow corridor toward them, sliding underneath the open legs of the first grunting hound, and then grappling the legs of another as he slides, causing the second man to fling forward and split his lip on the rail post.

Springing to his feet, he takes the steps three at a time, until he accesses the door leading through to the rooftop.

He rams it open with his shoulder, speeding across the gravel until he's finally sailing through the air, leaping with all the speed and strength he can muster off the brim of the platform.

He lands, somersaulting with the momentum as he's learned to do with much practice, and not missing a beat as he continues running over the rooftop of the neighboring apartment building.

Carson looks over his shoulder, only to see that he'd been followed by three of the most daring of the crew, traversing the risky path he'd taken with quickened steps.

He hurtles over the next border to the rooftop below, barely registering the cry of pain echoing behind him as one of the men likely lands wrong, clutching at his busted ankle and howling like a wounded animal.

Carson knows that despite the burning in his lungs, he has to increase his speed in order to make this next jump. There was no faith that could save him, or any amount of wit that would implausibly elevate him... it was just him, and his body's own mechanics that he could dare to rely on.

He wills himself one final surge of endurance, widening his steps as he comes hurdling toward the edge, and then launches himself.

It was like being suspended in time, a moment frozen in mid-air as he cried out in anticipation; a war-cry full of angst and fallible hope.

"Aaaaarggh!"

He fucking makes it, but just barely; by mere feet.

Carson hastily bolts upright, looking back at the rooftop overhead, and the enormous gap that he'd miraculously just cleared.

Breathing heavily, and feeling like a demi-god at the sheer luck, he waves obnoxiously at the pair staring over at him with a sense of mingled fury and awe at what he'd just accomplished. It was obvious the duo wouldn't be following as they remained glued to the spot, watching helplessly as Carson disappeared through the exit door on the impossibly far tier below them.

As he jogs down the staircase, he places a mental check mark to signify the first part of his plan being successfully completed.

* * *

"So, you mean to tell me," and Goolie pauses here, dragging the rolled hundred dollar bill across the white substance and sucking it up through his nostril - closing his eyes briefly at the familiar stinging sensation washing over him, then blinking the dark irises housing blown pupils open again - "that this little rat fuck, somehow managed to steal my shit - _my_ product, and escape from... how many of you were there again?"

Big D, runs his hand self consciously over the letters cut into the back of his brunette head that spell out 'Big D', swallowing audibly before answering.

"Um - about twelve."

Goolie's dusky eyes narrow, his smile slimming into a thin smirk. He was currently sitting behind his large, ornate desk, clothed in a lavish gold bathrobe, raven hair slicked back and greased into place.

"Twelve. Twelve men," he intones incredulously. "Twelve of my hounds. That's just fucking brilliant," and quite suddenly, he's laughing, the sound building into hysterics as he pounds the table successively harder, the sound intensifying between each fist blow.

"Twelve men!" He repeats, flushed in his hysterical swill of feigned joviality. Several of the group start to follow suit, chuckling along uncertainly, Big D, also allowing himself to force a tentative smile a little at the maniacal display.

"So what do you all suggest I do? Any ideas?" Goolie prompts, grumbling the words between dying bits of nonsensical jeering.

No one speaks. And the laughter stills like frozen water.

"Oh, c'mon. I'm sure somebody has an idea?"

The silence engrosses the space, the small group huddled together and unmoving, an air of foreboding saturating the enclosed warehouse territory.

Without a second thought, Goolie pulls out his customized hand gun, a silver magnum imprinted with a decorative sequence of roses, shooting the man furthest to the left. Once he drops, he shoots the next one, and then quickly guns down the third.

When he's finally pointing the pistol at him, Big D shouts out desperately, "Wait! Me - I have one - I have an idea!"

Goolie hesitates momentarily, then lowers the gun, nodding for the boorish man to proceed.

Big D, puts down his large hands that he'd been holding up in a gesture of both surrender and some sort of haphazard protection, his hazel eyes fluttering open at the ringing silence that had greeted his pleading outburst.

"Well - go on then. I'm all ears for the next fifteen seconds. Then I'll be bored, and all trigger finger."

"H-Hummel. He's - um - he's got a brother. Works at the market. Name's Kurt. He's - er -Hummel's twin."

Goolie sneers, "not that that isn't a fun tid bit of information but why, IN THE GOOD FUCK WOULD I CARE ABOUT THAT?!"

Big D winces, squeezing his eyes shut again, automatically fearing the worst. When he doesn't feel the impending bullet he was convinced should've been tearing through his flesh, he opens them again, continuing on with a quavering voice.

"B-because, you could - you know, use him. T-take Kurt, and hold him hostage. Hummel would do anything for him. That way you could like - smoke him out. B-bring him to you."

The room is eerily quiet once again, save for the sharp breathing of the three remaining men standing before Goolie, waiting with baited breath for what fate was to befall them.

Goolie clapped his hands together, a genuine expression of delight coursing over his features.

"Well then D, looks like you have a present to retrieve and gift wrap for our dear friend. And I don't want to see your face, until this Kurt's - is standing directly next to it. Understood?"

Big D nods frantically, clambering backwards toward the door while still making eye contact with Goolie. The three exit with a swift close of the door, and Goolie exhales slowly. He puts down his pistol, then takes another hit, rubbing the remaining contents from his tanned nose with a brush of his forefinger and thumb.

"Fuck. I forgot to tell them to clean this up before leaving," he remarks aloud while glaring down at the bodies lining the floor; a complete absence of remorse as he stares at the figures like old refuse.

"Ah, well. Later."

* * *

Kurt hated this shit. He expected these types day in and day out. Dealing with the homophobic slurs, and the random hold up's... hell, he wasn't a stranger to having a gun tracing the back of his skull a time or two before. They _were_ in the district after all.

He didn't think much of this group initially, just another testament to life in the projects. That is, until he realized who was leading it.

Big D...

One of the Goolie's most easily distinguishable right hands. He remembers him from years ago, when he was known for a very short time by his given name, David, before his reputation had morphed him into the merciless entity known as 'Big D'... a name attributing to not only his broad figure, but his uncanny draw toward doing any and all things in a 'big' manner: including shooting some kid in the face for calling him a fat ass. The guy didn't believe in handling things delicately.

He was a fifth year drop out who spent most of his days hustling people through brute force, mugging and other forms of delinquency that led him to where he apparently is now; pulling triggers, slanging, and collecting debts under Goolie's name.

"There! Grab him!"

Kurt hadn't registered the words until he was being pulled across the counter by a random hound. He managed to pull the punk's spindly appendage away, and nail him in the face with a swift jab before attempting to push past toward the front exit.

"Feisty. But it won't do you any good faggot," Big D jeered, easily pinning Kurt's arms behind his back with one hand, while using the other to yank at Kurt's scalp, forcefully dragging him along and out the door.

"You little bitch!" shouted the lanky man who he'd struck, skin-bald head gleaming under the heat of the fluorescent lighting, as he moved to strike Kurt in retaliation. Kurt winced, expecting the blow to possibly shatter his nose judging by the ferocity in which the man had drew back his fist.

"Hold off Spider! Unless you wanna answer to Goolie for why he's damaged goods?"

The gaunt man called Spider, groaned, letting his hand fall to his side while biting his lip in contemplation, eyes searing with agitation.

"Fine! But if that fucking fudge packer touches me again, I don't give a fuck! I'm making him see the back side of my fist. Or maybe, if he's lucky, I can show him some of my other parts. He's got pretty lips like a chick; bet they can be put to good use," adds Spider suggestively, running his hand along Kurt's flushed cheek.

Kurt recoils from the touch, causing both Spider and Big D to chortle at his look of disgust.

"W-what the hell are you trying to do?! Let me go!"

"Takin' you to Goolie. A present from him to your brother. Now chill the fuck out and sit still!" He commanded while forcing Kurt into the back seat of the souped up Honda, crowding behind him and settling in the back with him in order to ensure the little fairy didn't try anything stupid, like jump out while the car was moving.

Kurt was now unceremoniously sandwiched between the two men in the back of the compact sedan, trapped and incapable of doing more than worrying about his current circumstances, and maybe how he could somehow get out.

"Go!" Big D ordered, the driver nodding and then hitting the gas, the car lurching forward with a squeal; the smell of burnt rubber from the screeching tires lingering behind the group like a clouded mist curling into the atmosphere.

* * *

Kurt is trying not to visibly shake as the lift takes the group up toward the Goolie's headquarters, creaking and jolting as it ascends toward the inevitable.

Before he can wonder about what exactly would awaiting him, a meaty hand is clasping his arm and guiding him from the elevator.

They're striding through what looks to be barracks, rows of bunk beds lining the walls like something out of a boot camp. The various men - or hounds rather, who'd been dawdling about, some shooting craps in the corner, others boldly attempting to nap despite the chatter and din, and some checking over their weaponry, vigorously cleaning their guns - stand at attention once they glimpse them passing; their expressions depicting a sense of curiousity, intrigue, and something else that causes Kurt to swallow, feeling suddenly sick under their gaze.

There had to be at least thirty of them. All packing, and suited in bullet proof vests as if expecting the apocalypse to suddenly show at their front door.

He tries his best to ignore the wolf whistles and derogatory comments, the heated glares that feel like searching fingers caressing his bare skin.

"Shut the fuck up, already! Step back!" Big D shouts, the hounds tittering with a energy akin to hunger as they laugh, but step back, observing them carefully as they course through the room and exit into a darkened corridor.

As they make it through another corridor, they enter a room which is a direct contradiction to the dim lit passageway they'd just left behind.

The door leads into a high ceilinged, vast room, brightly lit from the windows sitting at the cusp of the roof, and one large sky light located directly above the figure sitting calmly behind the colossal desk; dead center, like the focal point of some distorted kingdom.

The olive skin cracks apart, a wide smile splitting across the admittedly handsome face, white teeth gleaming underneath slick hair as they come to a halt in front of the throne-like desk.

"Got him, Goolie."

"I have eyes idiot. I can see that."

Big D, the massive figure seems to shrink under the scrutiny, a red flush tracing the thick jawline.

Kurt seeing his opportunity, shirks his arm away, his patented bitch face in full effect. Big D moves to reassert his hold but Goolie raises a hand, signalling for him to refrain from doing so.

Goolie remains quiet, eying Kurt with a look bordering appreciation.

"So you're Hummel's brother, huh?"

"Last I checked," Kurt spits in retaliation.

Goolie chuckles, piercing eyes narrowing.

"It's uncanny how alike you look. I would think I was staring at Hummel himself."

"That tends to happen when you're twins."

Big D, snorts, but quickly recovers, playing the noise off as a cough. Goolie's smile disappears for a moment, then briskly returns, even more sickening in its faux sweetness.

"Indeed - Kurt," he slowly drawls the name as if he's physically tasting the letters. Kurt's spine tingles, the sense of fear building with each passing second.

"So - what is it you want from me?" He says with whatever miniscule bout of courage he could pull from; his supply dangerously waning.

"Simple. Your brother. The little sneak thief stole from me. And nobody - I mean not even God himself - steals from Goolie."

"My brother's a lot of things, but he isn't insane."

"Perhaps you don't know him as well as you think Porcelain."

The crash sounds like a cannon blast echoing across the immense space, glass descending down from the sky light overhead as a figure plummets through the rain of falling shards.

People are shouting, guns are drawn, and Kurt is suddenly staring across the space at none other than Carson, holding a gun to Goolie's temple as if they were simply playing a game of cops versus robbers in its casualness.

"C-Carson," he breathes incredulously.

Carson shoots him a lop-sided grin, a twinkle sparking within his blue orbs; then his mood shifts, his mask going up as he cries out, "tell them to back the fuck off! Now!"

Goolie has his hands held up, his laxidasical air completely absent as he stiffly nods at his troops.

"B-back off."

"Good. Now, me and my brother are leaving and if anybody tries pulling some shit, I'm putting a bullet in your fucking skull. Kurt -" Carson states pointedly, a tilt of the head inclining toward the gangling man called Spider.

Kurt looks down at the gun sitting precariously at Spider's hip, pulling it free and drawing it on Goolie as well.

"Get his car keys," Carson spouts, nodding over at Big D, who looks mutinous. Big D glares over at Goolie, seemingly asking for permission without words. Goolie gives him a subtle nod causing D to relinquish his keys, Kurt snatching them away and marching over to his brother's side.

Carson uses his free arm to place Goolie in a headlock, the gun still touching the greasy head as they begin to trek forward; Big D and the rest keeping their own guns trained on the trio, but refusing to fire for fear of cutting down their boss.

The tension felt like a swamp, swallowing them up and dragging them under the surface until they couldn't breathe as they made their way through the barracks, an army of guns trained on them with fingers itching to squeeze the trigger.

Kurt was moving back to back with Carson, trying to keep the hounds from putting a bullet in his brother's back as they meandered forward on a cloud of pure adrenaline.

The elevator ride felt like a year long venture rather than a few minutes.

"You know you won't make it."

"Shut up."

"They'll gun you down before you can open the car door -"

"Shut up!" Carson repeats more heatedly.

"Hell if I was you, I'd be praying that they would. 'Cause if I ever get my hands on you after this, I'll make you wish that they'd killed you today."

Carson tightens his hold on Goolie's throat, making it a point for silence. The lift opens, and they're not surprisingly met by a gaggle of troops swarming. Kurt can't help the doubt that starts to creep in at the sight. But his brother isn't deterred as he drags Goolie ahead, making his way toward the Honda that had been Kurt's transport here not a half hour ago.

Kurt gets behind the wheel as they load into the car hastily.

It's mere seconds before the car is pelted by stray bullets; fire raining from what seems like every angle. Carson returns a few shots out the cracked window but focuses on staying low, Kurt feeling as if his body is running solely on adrenaline, fear, and insanity equally.

They burst through the garage door of the floor level, the twins simultaneously expelling a breath at being in the open air and out of range of the cluster fuck they'd left behind.

"The border Kurt!"

Kurt doesn't question the reasoning for that specific destination. He knows that his brother must have a reason; that this wasn't based on concidence, but on strategic intention.

He floors it, pushing the petal until it's smashed into the car floor as he maneuvers through the paved streets. It doesn't seem as if they're being followed. At least not immediately.

It's a flurry of movement. Kurt practically crashes into the small building, leaps from the car and follows his brother and Goolie into the patrol station, gun still held tightly in his grip and pointing at the back of Goolie's slickened head.

"We got him, Druegen. He's ours."

There were no police really. Not behind the wall anyway. Just the border patrol, which the city's inhabitants have dubbed the 'wall crawlers'. Their most important job being liasons for the police force beyond and actively asserting that the border or the walls, remain clear and escape free. Their head enforcer or appointed Captain, was the man called Druegen, who Carson was currently addressing.

Druegen exhales slowly, running his hand through his gray tresses, a grim smile barely gracing his thin mouth.

"I don't how the hell you managed it, kid."

Druegen suddenly nods at several officers who step forward, guns drawn. For a mad second, Kurt thinks they're baring down on Goolie, but another quick assessment finds them pointing their standard issue beretta's at the twins.

"What the fuck," Carson exclaims. The patrolees remove Carson's gun then drag him into awaiting cell, slamming it closed behind him; another pair slapping cuffs on Kurt, while stealing away his hand gun as well.

"What the hell are you doing Druegen? We had a fucking deal!"

"I'm sorry. It was this - or he was gonna kill my family."

Suddenly a towering figure emerges, his broad frame taking up most of the door.

"We meet again pretty eyes."

Kurt isn't able to speak before he's clubbed in the back of the head and everything goes black. Goolie laughs derisively, eyes brimming with satisfaction as Big D gathers the unconscious man, throwing him over his shoulder and calmly exiting without a second glance.

"What are you gonna do with Kurt?!" Carson screams, a note of desparation audible, nearly transforming into a plea.

"Oh him?" Goolie responds with devious smirk. "Whatever I want, for as long as I want, cowboy."

"NOOOO!"

"Don't drop the soap Hummel," and Goolie follows in the wake of his most respected hound, disappearing out the door with an arrogant strut.

Carson is shaking the bars in a frenzied state, pulling, punching, doing everything he can to feel like his heart wasn't just ripped from his chest.

Eventually he quiets, slumping to the floor in a tearful, helpless ball. Druegen steps up to the cell, looking down at him apologetically.

"I truly am sorry."

"How much?" Carson whispers.

"What?"

"A few thousand? A new car? How much did it cost for you to become a traitorous coward? How much was _my_ family worth?"

Druegen's beady eyes bore into Carson, but he remains silent, wringing his hands together anxiously. Carson slowly stands on his feet, then reaches through the bars, yanking Druegen's head through the metal slits.

Druegen's agonized screams fill the space as his ears were practically ripped off with the sudden forceful movement, blood oozing down the sides of his face and neck from the torn flesh, his head now securely lodged between the bars.

Before any of the other patrolmen can react, Carson has smashed his booted foot directly into the center of Druegen's face, dislodging him back through the metal beams and easily shattering several bones, rendering Druegen unconscious, and promptly disfiguring his face. He would require a bridge with several fake veneers to fill in the holes where several teeth were knocked loose, his nose would from now on remain off center, and his right cheekbone would be permanently sunken after the impact.

To Carson, it would still never be enough.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks for the follows I got on this fic thus far. I'm glad to see a couple of folks are interested as this fic a bit of a different animal for me. I know that some of this stuff is seeming a bit far fetched and even implausible but again, it's based off of an action movie, and we all know how believable and realistic those can be... lol. Please review. It'll inspire me to continue, and also I just like to hear what you guys think and how the story's coming across. We shall be meeting Mr. Anderson in the next chap so stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Five months later...**

The pearl colored Cadillac pulls up to the curb, a flashing contradication to the dreary backdrop; the night sky the only real purity in this neighborhood surrounding the vehicle.

There are just enough street lamps to wash the paved street in a faint glow, the light gaining intensity nearer to the dilapidated building - tonight's destination, half a block ahead.

"You pulled too close to the curb. Again," the man in the backseat drawls in a thick latin accent.

"Sorry Marco."

"If you put a fuckin' scratch on my rims, you will be. Now hurry up and open the door, idiota."

The larger figure sitting in the passenger seat smirks, doing nothing to hide his amusement at the exchange between the driver and the backseat occupant currently rambling on about the strain of finding good help now-a-days.

The driver pulls open the backdoor. A man emerges dressed in a white suit, with a matching fedora sitting atop a mane of dark hair that trails over square shoulders, running his fingers over his neatly trimmed goatee as he steps out.

The swank figure waits while the larger man from the front passenger seat greets him, holding out a cane tipped in white gold and hands it over.

The paling light catches the chains hanging low across the white jacket, glittering like an opulent beacon, an obvious status symbol of this man called Marco's, economic standing. The three men then set off down the dismal street, ignoring the few figures huddled along the edge of a condemned building vying for warmth and coming off of their latest high. Marco shakes his head.

"Fuckin' hypes. All of them strung out on Goolie's low rate shit."

"Or yours," the larger figure adorning a silken shirt and leather jacket, tightly bound over thick muscle exclaims. Marco glares at him through his dark sunglasses; unnecessary but complimentary to the overall gaudy appeal of his assemble.

"My shit - is top quality Carlos. _Top_ quality. It's not my fault those bastards don't recognize it. Not when Goolie's got 'em all scared and too gutless to try any competition. Right Ignacio?"

"Si, Marco," the driver replies monotonously, his own dark hair nearly as long as Marco's, collecting in his face; the thick strands rivaling the full mustache bordering his upper lip.

"Damn right."

"He'd cut out your tongue if he heard you talkin' like that."

"So? Fuck that pompous Gringo bitch!" Marco spits acidly in response to Carlos' comment.

The fluorescent lighting burns brightly as they enter the liquor store. An Asian man watches them over an outdated magazine from behind the front counter, nodding in recognition of Marco, who tips the brim of his fedora hat as a way of greeting. A younger Asian, likely the man's son, lowers the M16 assault rifle he had trained on them from just behind the seemingly indifferent elder.

Ignacio looks up, and notes the cameras profiling them, the screen overhead displaying another man, sitting in a stool with a semi-automatic shotgun in hand, guarding the refrigerated liquor stock at the back of the store.

"Hell maybe if I could take over more areas, I could hire a driver who can manage not to fuck up my rims," Marco hisses at Ignacio, causing Carlos to elicit a deep chuckle.

As they reach the back area of the store, marching past the other guard as if he was simply part of the background, they halt directly in front of a wall display of snack foods. Carlos knocks on the wall, waits and then releases a handle on the side of the cabinet which opens like a door.

They descend down the dimly lit stairwell, winding until it ends with a lone door standing at the foot of the staircase.

"Couldn't stay away, eh, Marco?" A young black guy who's guarding the closed entry jokes, gold tooth managing to gleam even with the lack of direct light. The noise behind the door was less obscure, a muffled blaring of a quality sound system just behind the barrier.

"Man, I'd live in this bitch if I could."

"Some do, man. Some do," the man laughs, jostling the gun holster slung across his chest. "Gentlemen," he concludes, opening the door with a flourish.

The place is packed. Beautiful nude bodies, dancing on top of tables in ridiculous heels, sensual moves showcased underneath strobing lights. Smoke wafting from various forms of cigarettes and other materials causing a filmy haze to spread throughout the space. A set of craps, roulette, and poker tables set aside in its own designated area, crackling with raucous noise and cursing.

A tawdry bar lined against the further wall and directly adjacent to that, a main stage currently home to a gyrating beauty, slinking down the pole saudered into the stage floor.

"Ignacio. Drinks," Marco commands as he and Carlos scope out the scenery. He retrieves the regular orders, and returns to where Marco and Carlos are now loitering, staring wide eyed near the front of the stage.

Ignacio places the drinks on the nearby table, carefully seating himself with the other men while observing the surroundings with a watchful eye.

"She don't have much titty, but she can move can't she? What'chu think Nacho? You like what you see?"

There was another girl on stage now, long brunette hair splayed across her bare back as she crawled across the stage floor, sliding to her feet, and committing an array of acrobatic maneuvers on the pole that looked nearly effortless.

She was tiny, with a slender build; a pretty face harboring a somewhat larger nose, but brown eyes that sparkled. Despite her quaint, but unique beauty, she wasn't Ignacio's type.

"She's nice."

"She's nice, he says," Carlos jeers, shaking his head at the statement. "She ain't a fuckin' nun pendejo. She's not s'posed to be _nice_. She's s'posed to get your dick hard."

As a cocktail waitress passes, Carlos grabs her arm roughly, whispering in her ear, then slips what looks to be some large bills in between her breasts, slapping her ass before sending her on her way.

A few drinks in, the same cocktail waitress returns.

"Follow me gentlemen."

Carlos smirks devilishly as he stands, while Marco pulls himself to his feet, making sure to walk at a pace that allows his gold tipped cane to be conspicuous to those who happen to be looking their way. Ignacio takes a final sip from his plain cola, keeping his eyes peeled as he followed the group toward the back.

They bypass the gambling area, containing all the game tables and walk up a narrow flight of steps. They then enter through a maroon curtain, several booths spaced out against the wall housing worn leather seats; nearly transparent veils enclosing each booth. The man serving as security is addressed by the cocktail waitress briefly, then suspiciously slinks away and out the main curtain. The cocktail waitress then ushers them to the far booth in the corner. The VIP lounge is virtually empty but for the trio.

And then before Ignacio can blink, the slim brunette who'd just been performing on stage emerges.

"I'm Diamond. I'll - um - be performing for you this evening."

"Ooh, yeah baby. I like the sound of that," Carlos remarks, getting comfortable as he settles back into the dark leather seat, eyes piercing the brunette; x-raying through the thong and barely-there material covering her pert, smaller breasts.

Diamond takes that as her cue, and then begins to perform, rolling her body in time with the muffled beat booming from outside the curtain.

She begins to glide over to Ignacio, expertly avoiding Carlos' overtly groping hands, straddling his waist. Ignacio loosely holds her waist, trying his best to seem connected.

"Aww, look at that Marco. The boy looks scared shitless of pussy," Carlos jokes. Marco laughs in unison, using his cane to slide underneath Diamond's thong and snapping it back in place.

"H-Hey!"

"Ooh, I like this one. She's got fire in that pretty little body," Marco teases, sliding his sunglasses off of his face and storing them inside his jacket pocket.

"Maybe she can use some of that fire to take care of our friend over there," Carlos states casually, smiling over at Ignacio.

"I just dance," Diamond affirms, Ignacio feeling the tenseness seeping in her body as she tries to continue with the dance.

"Not tonight you don't. You're gonna give my scared little friend over there, a blow job. 'Cause that's what I paid for. And if you don't -" Carlos grabs a handful of Diamond's hair and yanks her head back, causing her to yelp and fall to the floor, her face screwed up in a tight grimace of pain - "I'll make sure we run a train on you that you'll never forget you little bitch."

Ignacio now feels himself tense, eying the fearful brunette and looking back at the pair of men defiantly.

"You should take it, Nacho. Get your dick wet and stop actin' scared," Marco reports, an air akin to someone discussing a normal work day filled with mundane paperwork and old coffee. Not raping a defenseless woman.

"I'm not - I don't want that. The dance was fine -"

"Look Nacho, you're too fuckin' uptight man. You need it. And on top of that, you might just hurt my feelings if you don't accept the gift I paid for especially for you," Carlos seethes, his dark eyes narrowing as he stares over at Ignacio, his large hand still gripping Diamond's strands firmly.

"No."

"What did you say?"

"I said no. Now let her up."

Carlos and Marco exchange a look, then burst out laughing.

"Hurry up and take off your bra. He'll have his dick in your mouth in less than a minute, 'cause if he don't -" the gun surfaces, the hammer clicking back like a promise as it points at Ignacio's loins - "I'll shoot if off," Carlos threatens; his hands both now occupied: one laced roughly within dark tresses, the other curled around the handle of his gun.

Marco is still tittering, eyes gleaming as he bites his lip in anticipation, watching the scene unfold with a sickening hunger.

Ignacio gradually stands up, a moment of silence passing in which he appears to be in deep thought, then he speaks.

"Cornflakes. They're my favorite."

"W-what the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Cornflakes. Are. My. Favorite."

"Fuck - I think the idea of gettin' his little cojones played with made him lose his fuckin' marbles," Marco laughs, both hands caressing the golden tipped cane.

There's silence but for the whimpers of the girl still huddled at Carlos' feet, and then Ignacio exhales.

There's a sudden explosion of movement.

Ignacio kicks the gun from Carlos' hand, then boots him square in the wide chest, sending him flying backwards through the curtain. Diamond screams and crawls to the corner to avoid the sudden disarray.

Marco was looking at the curtain as if expecting Carlos to resurface and claim the whole thing was a joke. But a few seconds pass, and Marco is staring up at Ignacio with daggers pooling in the beady glare.

He pulls at the handle of the cane, trying to unsheath the rapier blade inside the cane's skin, but Ignacio anticipates the move halfway through the motion, a swift snap kick rapping the knuckles of Marco's hand which halts the movement.

Marco tries again, then finds himself holding the half opened cane-sword on both ends, attempting to push off the foot pushing the cane back toward his throat. Ignacio then uses the same foot to instead hook underneath the cane, popping it out of Marco's grip and catching it in his own. He smashes the handle into the side of Marco's head, and without looking slams the other end through the curtain, effectively knocking the wind from Carlos who'd attempted to grab him from behind.

"Stay down!" Ignacio orders Diamond, following Carlos through the transparent curtain bordering the booth.

The two square up, staring at each other, Carlos struggling to regain his breath.

"Y-you - I'm gonna fuckin' kill you - you know that."

Ignacio pulls off the mustache that had been lining his upper lip, followed by removing the long, thick hair atop his scalp in one fell swoop, tossing them both aside.

"I'd like to see you try," the strange man replies stoicly, spinning the cane before positioning himself for the attack, hazel eyes more prominent without the dull wig and fake facial hair hiding the handsome face. His small stature easily forgotten by the way in which he expertly holds his ground.

"You fuckin' lyin', betrayin' son of a bitch!"

And Carlos rushes at him, the man ducking and striking him in the shin, then slamming the other end of the cane into the large back, the momentum of the blow and his own weight sending Carlos crashing into the far wall.

Carlos quickly recovers grabbing a left over beer bottle from a table and flinging it at the unknown man, who ducks it. Carlos throws another which the man knocks away with the cane. He throws a third which the smaller man breaks with the cane tip, the speed of the flying bottle catching him off balance. Carlos rushes him again, blocking the hasty strike of the cane with the outside of his muscled forearm, throwing a solid hook that rocks the man's head to the side.

As he falls back, he uses the cane to sweep Carlos' feet out from under him, then as he lies on his back next to fallen mass, smashes the golden handle into his sternum causing Carlos to choke out a pained yell. Carlos grabs the cane, using his strength to hold it at bay, both men holding it between them in a fierce grip, shaking, and struggling to gain the upper hand.

Finally the man lets go, causing the handle to sling shot into Carlos's face, then rolls away, jumping to his feet. He overhears the footsteps crowding the metal stairway, then ducks to the side of the curtain to remain hidden.

A line of men dressed in various arrangements of fancy attire: suits, slacks, and silken garments barge into the room, taking in the scene before them.

Carlos's nose was bleeding profusely as he staggered his way to his feet, Marcos now surfacing from behind the thin veil where they'd been having their private show, rubbing his fedora-less head as if trying to purge the ringing in his temples.

As the room crowds with about five men, the smaller man steps out to face them all.

They look over at Carlos, then quickly deduce the other man standing across from them as the culprit behind the mayhem.

Suddenly one charges, and is met by a roundhouse that sends him flying into the nearest henchmen, both crashing into a table behind a nearby veil. The man somersaults across the floor, and punches one square in the balls, using the back of his calf to knock the injured man aside.

Another guard wrenches him up by his jacket, the young man soundly flipping the weighty man over his shoulder and swiping his dress shoe across his jaw in an uncoordinated kick.

The smaller man grunts at the blow that unexpectedly hammers his rib cage, another one almost claiming the air from his body entirely. He elbows the perpetrator in the face, putting the man in a headlock.

He has just enough time to catch a glimpse of Carlos, now back on his feet, aiming his rediscovered gun directly at him. He punches the man he has in his grip in the face to daze him, releases his hold in order to grab the hand and swing him like a carousel causing the guy to take the bullet fired by Carlos in the back.

He barely registers Diamond's screaming as he then tackles the front of the shot figure, yelling furiously as the pushes him back toward Carlos, using him as a human shield while Carlos empties his pistol into the body.

Eventually they crash into the wall, the dying man sandwiched between Carlos and the imposter, who is reaching past the nearly lifeless body to hold Carlos' gun hand at bay. Unable to get a good angle to strike Carlos directly, the man head butts the middle party, causing the back of the other man's head to knock into Carlos' face. He repeats the motion, and Carlos drops the gun, the middle-man sliding to the floor in a heap, while Carlos looks confused and incapacitated.

The man lands a body shot to Carlos' side with his left fist, then cracks Carlos in the face with a strong right hook that finally folds him over, sprawled out on the carpeted floor.

"Enough! Or I cut this bitch's throat!"

The man looks up, his short curls plastered to his head in sweaty ringlets as he tries to catch his breath, his mind racing at the sight of Marco, his cane successfully unsheathed, and the thin sword pressed against Diamond's trachea.

"You don't wanna do that Marco."

"Fuck you man! Back up or I'll open up her pretty little fuckin' throat."

The man holds up his hands in surrender, the other figures who'd been injured in the explosive fray beginning to stir.

"You worked for me for months. Who the fuck are you?" Marco queries angrily.

"Doesn't matter. But I think its safe to say that I'll be resigning."

Marco sneers, chuckling at the man's audacity while in this impossible position. The man is trying to control his breathing and remain centered, noting the presence of the slight but very sharp knife attached to his own belt loop.

"Whoever you are. You got balls. I'll give you that. But I hope you haven't gotten too attached to them, 'cause I'll be cutting them off before the nights over."

The man's smirk spreads.

"Well, just for future reference, the name's Anderson."

The movement was quick, a mere flash that ended in Marco screaming out in pain; a dagger protruding from the hand gripping the sword. Diamond is able to pull away from the slackened hold, rushing behind Anderson.

"Fuckin' pinche cock sucker!" He pulls the knife from his skin, throwing it at Anderson who catches the blade in the forearm, blocking its trajectory toward Diamond.

"Aargh," Anderson groans, quickly removing the blade and barely missing the wild slash that slices the air from the rapier Marco is again wielding. Both he and Diamond are backing up toward the main curtain as Marco continues to swipe like a mad man. Anderson pushes Diamond out of the way, launching her to the side as he gets grazed, the blade cutting through his jacket and opening skin.

He ducks backward, dodging Marco's desparate swings while trying to find an opening. It happens when Marco stabs forward, Anderson jumping to the side in the knick of time, grabbing Marco's arm by the elbow, and using his own elbow to dislodge the man's grip on the weapon, hitting until he hears a satisfying snap. Anderson then belts Marco's knee with a heel kick, easily buckling the crook who howls in pain at the dislocated knee cap.

Another guard rushes through the curtain, Anderson answering by throwing the rapier like a spear which sinks into the man's stomach and causes him to stumble back, dropping his gun to the floor. Diamond screams, Anderson reaching over and pulling her to her feet.

"Get out! Go get any of the other girls who are left and leave. Now!" He instructs, Diamond's wide eyes glistening as she nods and disappears through the curtained entryway.

Anderson picks up the pierced man's gun, following in her wake through the main curtain. The club has already begun to empty, people scrambling like a frenzied pack of animals, screaming and clawing their way through in order to get out. He spots several suited men aiming at him from below.

He shoots one who spills onto a roulette table, and takes out another who was rushing toward him while firing off a few shots.

He ducks behind the rails of the metal staircase, aiming from in between the bars and trading shots with another man who'd managed to fire off a few rounds while standing atop the main bar. He eventually nails the guy, the man flying off the bartop and crashing into the bottles lining the wall.

Anderson turns to find one of the earlier fallen guards bursting through the curtain with his gun drawn this time. Realizing he was out of ammo, Anderson chucks his pistol, cracking the assailant in the face and knocking him on his ass. He then rushes up the remaining metal steps, and dives with a fist drawn, smashing the balled appendage into the man's jaw, stilling the figure completely.

Another guard ducks through the curtain, Anderson hopping to his feet in a kick flip, that he barely makes before he's kicked back into the railing at the top of the landing. It dawns on him that this is the same man who'd been guarding the front entrance, the gold tooth easily discernable as he bares his teeth. The man uses the opportunity to land a solid blow against the side of Anderson's face; Anderson then grabbing the guy and pulling him into the knee strike he forges.

Sweet tooth crumples forward, but still manages to grab Anderson around the shoulders, gripping him in a tight bear hug.

Anderson looks over the rail, and after a quick assessment, grabs the henchman's head between his hands and launches them both over the railing into a mid-air somersault.

They land on a roulette table which collapses under their combined weight; Sweet tooth taking the brunt of the impact as Anderson lands on top of him back to front.

Just as he's rolling himself off of the guy who seemed to be rendered unconscious, a slew of gun toting swat officials lay siege on the place, rushing through the entrance decked out in heavy bulletproof and protective gear.

Anderson merely nods his head, indicating the staircase behind him.

"He's up there. Him and Carlos. Oh and some other possibly dead guys," he adds as an afterthought.

They rush past, and overtake the room behind the velvet curtain.

As he makes his way out onto the street, touching his fingertips over his likely bruised eye, and licking over the cut bottom lip, he's accosted by Lieutenant Briggs.

"Anderson. I see you left us a hell of a mess to clean up."

"I see you guys still haven't figured out the meaning of punctuality. What's the point of me wearing a wire if you don't ever get here when I need you? You'd think you'd remember the fuckin' ridiculous code word that _you_ made up. Sir," he adds condenscendingly.

"Yeah well we got here didn't we? And I grew up on cornflakes so don't knock it. You should let the medics take a look at that eye. Check you over for any other injuries. Like whatever it is that's got you bleeding through your jacket."

Anderson looks down and registers the blood sure enough seeping through his jacket sleeve from the stab wound he'd gotten from his own throwing knife. He knows that both of the knife wounds are shallow and nothing much to cry over. Something he could easily stitch up at home.

"I'm fine."

"Suit yourself," the Lieutenant grumbles, running his hand through his straw-like hair; fingertips raking through the thin wisps adorning the scalp. Anderson knows that he won't push him, something they've come to an understanding about over the course of their relationship.

"I'll expect you tomorrow bright an early then. We've got a meeting with the head honcho. Some sort of special assignment. They specifically asked for you."

"The mayor?"

"Seems that way. Eight a.m. - and don't be late. And I'll be needing the report from this little fiasco by tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. You're welcome."

The Lieutenant waves him off before reconvening with several swat members, likely dicussing the clean-up plan. The streets are now compacted with squad cars, swat trucks, and a few ambulances.

"Um - e-excuse me? Anderson?"

Anderson turns to find himself facing a petite brunette, mascara running down her cheeks, and a standard cotton blanket likely provided by the paramedics draped over her thin shoulders.

"Diamond. Are you okay? Were you hurt?"

"N-no. They looked me over. I think I'm still a little in shock but - I'll live. Thanks to you. And it's Rachel - my name. Rachel Berry."

"Huh. Pretty. So why, Diamond?"

"They say that Diamond's are a girl's best friend. I don't know if you noticed but, it's not exactly easy to trust many people in this city."

Anderson sighs, producing an empathetic smile.

"Yeah. I know what you mean. And you can call me Blaine. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"Um - wait. I just wanted to know something."

He halts, eying her patiently. "Shoot."

"In the club - when we were inside the VIP room - you were really tense."

"Tends to happen in my line of work -"

"No, I mean - with me. Touching me. And even when I was dancing. You weren't like the rest. You seemed... sort of unfazed."

Blaine tilts his head, a mixture of curiousity and annoyance hovering in his gaze.

"What's your point here Rachel?"

"You might want to do more research for your next job. They weren't exactly wrong about you. Not really. You're not scared of women - you just aren't interested in them."

Blaine swallows, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was close enough to eavesdrop.

"I had two dads, so..." she trails off as if this explains it. He notes her use of the past tense word, 'had'. He leans in closer before responding.

"Maybe you should look into being a shrink. 'Stead of doing this for a living."

She chuckles, the sound empty of humor. "I've always wanted to sing. Maybe be on a stage someday. But there isn't much store in dreaming. Not in this place."

It was sad but he couldn't help but agree. The city life didn't bode well at all for dreaming. It barely allowed one to exist, fighting and struggling to get by day to day, let alone pursue a true passion; not unless that passion involved the seedy, low-end lifestyle consisting of drugs and sex in some capacity. If you weren't born with the right last name, or family money, or born on the right side of the wall... you were just another statistic.

He couldn't say that to her though. So he simply grins, hoping that it portrays an ounce of encouragement.

"Goodnight Miss Berry. And thanks - for not giving me away in there," he concludes with a wink. She watches as he disappears among the sea of flashing lights and vehicles, her eyes bright as she thinks of her dads.

* * *

**A/N**: So we got us some badass Blaine! Yay! This chap is where I begin to completely let my own mind take over apparently, lol. I'm kind of proud in a way cause I ended up sort of just doing my own thing with the action sequence (which I hope came out ok) and of course the addition of the Diamond character, aka: Rachel Berry, because that particularly never existed in the flick. I was sort of worried I was gonna follow the movie too faithfully, but now I'm happy with where this is going. It feels more like me, if that makes any sense. Please review, review, review! Your words keep me going. And thanks so far for the support via follows, favs, etc.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ah, here he is. Good morning to you Mr. Anderson. Heard about your latest job. Marco Chicon. One of the biggest thorns in my ass there ever was. That's not an easy feet, what you did."

Blaine enters the posh office space, Lieutenant Briggs by his side as he approaches the prodigious desk; the heavyset man sitting behind it decked out in an impeccably cut blue suit, brunette hair perfectly combed with a side part slitting the crisp strands. The blocked name tag sitting at the head of the desk top made from some sort of expensive wood is marked by the title: _Mayor Warren Hamilton_.

"Um - thanks. Just doing my job, sir."

"Well doing your job the way you've been doing it is why we asked you here today son."

"Sir?"

"Lieutenant Briggs here has informed me that you're the best of the best. And that's what we're going to need to pull this particular job off."

Blaine takes note of the other figure standing over the Mayor; embellished in a military uniform; the breast pocket draped in silver badges and decorative pins that signified this man's accomplishments in the field.

"Forgive me Mayor Hamilton, but I'm not sure where you're going with this. I'm just an undercover cop. Wouldn't this be out of my - um - jurisdiction?" he states carefully while eying the towering military officer as way of implication.

The taller, middle aged man adorned in the pale green uniform coat, strides from around the desk, closing in on Blaine; his deep voice booming.

"This is exactly within your expertise. Twenty-three years old and nearly sixty arrests. You're the youngest, most successful undercover officer we've ever had on record in this city. My name is Colonel James Carr, and I'll cut to the chase Anderson. I'm here because yesterday afternoon, there was an armored truck stolen by some of Goolie's hounds."

Blaine's face scrunches up in confusion. "And that requires military intervention?"

"It was what was _on_ the truck that requires military intervention. You see, they caught the driver at a traffic light, put a remote bomb on the door killing the driver and blasting the door apart for their access. Then they took the truck to their headquarters - the truck which contains a military sanctioned nuke. Dustin Goolsby is now in possession of the one of the deadliest weapons in our entire country. And the damn thing is rigged with a timer that started counting off the moment that door was blasted off its hinges."

Blaine looks over at the Lieutenant, both men harboring a grim expression.

Mayor Hamilton leans forward in his plush office chair, fingers laced together over the widened desk. "We received a call last night from Goolie himself," the Mayor continues. "They want a ransom for it. If not, well... who knows what he has planned. Lord knows he has the juice to turn that thing loose on whatever, or whomever he sees fit. But he made it pretty clear that he was planning to use it specifically on the District."

"Perfect. So how much damage are we talking?"

"We're talking the complete obliteration of the entirety of District B13," Colonel Carr answers firmly.

Blaine feels his heart pumping furiously at this news. Thousands of people: women, children, heaps of innocent unsuspecting people at the mercy of the twisted, nefarious mindset of what Blaine considered a mad-man. He inhales, then speaks as evenly as he can manage.

"How much time?"

"Thirty-six hours," the Colonel counters.

"And you want_ me _to stop it?"

"No. We want the best undercover cop, doing his best work, to stop it," Mayor Hamilton infers.

Blaine hesitates, trying to forage and make sense of this insanely immense request. He can't help but think of the rumors; what he deems practically common knowledge about the Mayor being underneath Goolie's thumb. He braces himself to be tactful with his next statement.

"With all due respect Mayor Hamilton, but I know, like most of us in the department, that you don't do much to rock Goolie's boat... so to speak."

He could see the look pass over the pudgy face; a flash of loathing burning in the brown eyes, then a sudden attempt at an unaffected smirk alighting. The Mayor retorts, his tone dangerous.

"Look boy, I do what I need to do to keep this whole town from falling apart. This isn't about whose the best god damn boy scout. This is about stopping that nuke before that whole place is lit up and blown off the map."

Blaine narrows his eyes, the thick eyebrows nearly knitting together under his scrutiny of the two men positioned across from him.

"I don't have any experience deactivating bombs -"

"You won't need it," Colonel Carr says simply, waving him off as if the sentiment was of ill importance. "It requires a code to deactivate it electronically. Plug in the numbers, and it'll shut off immediately."

He hesitates, his mind mulling over all of the potential problems and barriers; swarming like bees ready to sting him dead.

"I've done a lot of jobs. But getting inside the District - the way you need me to get inside, under Goolie's operation - it's damn near impossible."

"Ten steps ahead of you son," Mayor Hamilton chimes in, his voice almost pleasant sounding, as if the earlier exchange had never occurred mere seconds before. "You won't be on your own. We have someone; the perfect candidate to get you access. He knows the District inside and out, from every gutter to every wall crevice. He's an expert of those streets, like you're an expert at cleaning them up. I've no doubt he could get you inside."

Lieutenant Briggs speaks up then after having observed in a keen state of silence. "So who is it that you have in mind then?"

* * *

"Hummel!"

Carson slows the extension of the push up he's currently performing, beads of sweat sliding over the bare skin of his torso. He stands up, throwing his orange uniform shirt over his head as the corrections officer unlocks the cell door.

"What's the occasion?"

"Transfer. Moving you to minimum lock up."

"I must've been a good boy."

The officer answers by cuffing his hands, then shackling his feet before roughly shoving him forward.

Carson shuffles down the long hallway, ignoring the hollering and taunts from the other inmates as he makes his way toward the main entrance with the trio of guards tightly pressed to his sides.

He'd been counting it down, marking the days in his head.

Five months, seven days, and if he was being technical, twenty-one hours. He's spent each day burning inside with a cold fury, purging the moments of helplessness that would threaten to overwhelm him by focusing on establishing himself here; making sure to enforce the necessary image to maintain his safety.

He'd had to go hard early on, making sure to make an example of the first bestial figure who'd tried to take advantage. It didn't take long for the rest to realize that Carson wasn't to be fucked with; a respect that had earned him several roadies - a small but substantial clique that made it easier to pass the time without daily conflict.

It made the time pass with a miniscule sliver of increased ease. That was until he began to hear the rumors circulate around the place, stabbing at his heart like a freshly sharpened ice pick.

Each time usually ending with him finding an excuse to hit someone as the unrelenting rage spilled out of him, landing him lengthy stays in the prison hole, isolated and alone enough to let the silent tears fall.

_"Goolie's got some little queen he keeps on a tight leash. Guess he used to work in that market on the west side."_

It was Kurt_. _Kurt was alive.

_"Heard he's like a fuckin' slave or something. Whatever Goolie wants, he gets."_

Kurt was Goolie's lap dog.

_"Kid's asshole is probably as open as a church on Sunday. Sometimes they pass him around. But I heard Goolie likes to keep him to himself."_

Kurt was being tricked out.

_"Chained up like a dog, man. Little fag stays drugged up, smack him around when he needs it; keep him that way so he don't run."_

Kurt was chained up, beaten, and used...

But he was still alive; and Carson couldn't stand the notion of what his brother had been rumored to have become - the conditions in which he was suffering.

For the life of him he couldn't figure out why he was suddenly being transferred to the minimum security unit. Not with all of the assaults and the amount of times he'd been locked up in the hole listed on his record thus far within his five month stint.

All he knows is that he needed to be on high alert, because the only way he was ever getting out of this shit stain institution, was through blatant escape.

The fifteen years he'd been sentenced was simply fifteen years too long, and perhaps this sudden relocation would be the exact opportunity he'd been looking for. He had nothing more to lose, except his time, and frankly he had plenty of that to give, and was more than certain they were looking for him to serve whatever they saw fit anyhow. In the end, he would probably be left in here to rot for his remaining days, nestled away and unable to cause any more trouble for the carefully built system, corrupted by the marriage of the law with Goolie's empire.

He's chucked into the back of a transport van, narrow benches lined against the sides where he finds a seat, and waits; his mind whirring furiously on how he can use this transport as an opportunity to gain freedom.

Suddenly he hears the sounds of a struggle outside, standing up again to glimpse through the barred window and observe the source of the noise.

He sees a smaller man, dark head, and olive features, fitted in the standard prison uniform being drug out by four guards. He was putting up an impressive fight, kicking one in the stomach and elbowing another, before the guard to his left clips his leg, raining consecutive blows down on the figure with his night stick. The other guards then join in, the man eventually succumbing to the blows by curling into a protective ball to fend off the unjust assault.

They pull him to his feet forcefully, dragging him to the van and throwing him inside carelessly. Once they shut the door and signal for the driver to drive off, the man sits up, seeming surprisingly alert after his recent encounter with the prison guards.

He smiles, a thin black bobby pin sliding from in between his lips, clenched tightly in his teeth. He brings his cuffed hands up, removing the pin, and begins working on unhooking the cuffs, jamming the pin into the keyhole and twisting it.

"I'm not planning on staying. You could either join me, or wait until these fucks grab you up and shut you back in that shit box again. Your choice. Either way, this van's goin' on a detour."

Carson remains silent as the man removes the cuffs and begins picking at the door. He unlocks it, looking back before pushing one of the back doors open. The guy spits out the pin with a scrutinizing glare at Carson, a moment of curiosity causing him pause; as if waiting to see if Carson would choose to partake. Then he swiftly exits out the back, grappling the side and disappearing onto the van roof. He overhears the sound of feet thundering across the roof, and knows when he hears the front door being pulled open that the driver was likely unceremoniously yanked from the drivers seat; another thud signaling the passenger being kicked out of the other side.

He witnesses two bodies rolling along the graveled streets through the opened back door as if on cue as they speed away, and suddenly the window connecting the midsection of the van slides open.

The dark haired man was now behind the driver's seat, the opened cuff link still dangling from his wrist like a fashionable bracelet from one of Kurt's collectible fashion magazine's, the other end fastened securely around the tan skin.

"So?"

Carson blinks, pondering something, then quickly uses the pin to unclasp his own cuffs, slinking through the opened mid-window, and plopping into the passenger seat.

"So was there a plan involved here?" Carson queries monotonously.

"Not exactly. I figured we could lose 'em in the district."

"How were you planning on doin' that? They have wall crawlers blocking the way in."

"Fuck if I know. I figured that's our best chance, though."

As they come nearer to the wall's border patrol entrance, Carson states clearly, "punch it."

"What?"

"You wanna get in right? Punch it, and drive through 'em. I'll tell you what to do from there."

The thick eyebrows raise up in question, but the man shrugs and then exhales before pushing the pedal into the floor.

They brace themselves, several patrolmen already signaling for them to pull over as part of the customary check-point search. The van careens past the barricade, bullets now mauling the van as they crash through the gate.

The tires are shredded as they run over the road spikes set up, but the olive toned figure keeps his foot on the gas pedal, the van jarring and vibrating as they continue forward, rolling on nothing but the buckling tire rims.

"Turn left and then make a quick right. There's an alley into a back street. They won't follow, trust me."

The man nods, struggling to maneuver the steering wheel, swiping the side of a parked car as they barely make the first turn.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"The steering's fucked up."

"Well slow the fuck down on the turns jack ass!"

"Name's Kane actually," the smaller man grunts, making a show of pushing the brake pedal as nothing happens in response.

"Brakes are done too. This thing took too much damage on the way through the blockade."

"Never mind. Go up the street. There's a place we can use to slow up."

They rush ahead and through a neighborhood that looks to be blocked off by a fence, lined up with old dumpsters and in front of that, suspiciously lavish cars.

"Uh - suggestions on how we stop. It's blocked off ahead."

"Like this."

And Carson mashes the guy's foot down on the gas, steering them into the cult-a-sac, plowing into a large SUV which substantially slows their speed, and then ramming one last car, a beautiful Ferrari that flips over, leaving the front end of the van pinned underneath part of the once impressive roadster.

The man called Kane is shaking his head to ward off the potential concussion, trying to push past the air bag which was obstructing his sight, a thin line of blood trailing from a gash at the root of his hairline. Carson can feel that his lip is probably busted judging from the shock of copper that envelopes his taste buds when he swipes his tongue across the sensitive pink lip. His wrist also feels potentially sprained, but he ignores it.

Before he can officially relinquish the thing, Carson slips the other end of the Kane's opened handcuffs onto the steering wheel, clicking them into place.

"Wha - what the fuck?"

"Sorry, _Kane_. Got no time to play babysitter to some cop."

"You don't - I'm not a cop."

"Right. Well good luck. I'm sure you'll be welcomed here with open arms. I in the mean time have an overdue appointment with a certain Kingpin."

The man jostles his wrist, unsuccessfully removing the cuff link. A few guys are starting to slink toward their broken van, searching it out with guns drawn; Carson just barely being able to discern their approaching frames through the smoke sifting from the van's cracked engine.

"You're going after Goolie. I know. We can help each other."

"No. I don't need or want help from some pig -"

"I'm not just some pig. Look, I get why you'd feel that way -"

"Don't pretend like you know. You don't know shit about what fuckers like you are to me."

"I know about your brother."

Carson pauses, blue eyes burning with something new at the statement. The man continues, as if Carson's silence was permission to do so.

"You can't get to him on your own. No matter how good you are. I can help you. I _will_ help you. But right now this city's got a problem that's much bigger than both you and me. Something that'll effect us all if I don't get to Goolie myself. We both have the same goal in the end. We can work together on this and make something happen. _Really_ make a difference."

Carson contemplates this, eying the gang members gradually closing in as he sits in a brief space of silence.

"What's your real name?"

The man hesitates, his hazel eyes gleaming.

"Anderson. Blaine Anderson."

"Well Blaine Anderson, no thanks. Last time I trusted one of you, I ended up in that so called _shit box _that you just pretended to come out of with a fifteen year sentence and my brother becoming Goolie's fucking pet."

Carson then wrenches open the passenger door, flying across the debris, in between other cars and disappears before anyone can blink an eye, or catch sight of his retreating frame.

A full minute later, Blaine hears it.

"Eh! Whoever the fuck you are in there - you're a dead man! Comin' in here bustin' up my ride. This is Viper territory muthafucka!"

Blaine breathes out a heavy sigh, wondering by what miracle he was going to manage to get himself out of this one.

He's familiar with the Vipers. A notiorious gang comprised of mostly black affiliates and soldiers who have created quite the rep, and nearly single-handedly own the southern west portion of the District.

He looks around for something to unlatch the cuffs linking him to the steering wheel. There was nothing, so he begins to yank as hard as possible, hoping that he can loosen and pull apart the wheel, using his feet against the dash for extra leverage.

"Yo! You better come out man. I ain't fuckin' with your ass."

The sweat on his forehead stings as it mingles with the gash on his hairline, his pulling desperate as he can feel the van being surrounded. He hears the voice barking out orders for several of his soldiers to check out the heap.

The wheel seems to loosen as a thin black man wearing a blood red du-rag finally looks through the opened driver side door, the door hanging precariously after the crash. Blaine has enough time to glimpse the metal pole tightened in the man's grip before they lock eyes, and the man strikes, jabbing the pole toward him.

Blaine slinks out of the way of the uncoordinated movement, then dodges another jab with the beam, twisting the cuff link around it and using it as leverage against the wheel.

His assailant attempts to pull at the reedy pipe, jiggling it in hopes of jarring it loose. Blaine uses his booted feet to push the steering wheel to its breaking point, and with a battle cry, disconnects the thing.

The du-ragged soldier loses his grip, and in his surprise at the action, Blaine is able to push the pole into his thin chest, and swiftly bring it up to crash against his jaw, sending him flying back into a piece of the Ferrari's broken frame. Another Viper soldier peaks in through the passenger side window, and is met by the other end of the pole; Blaine wielding it like a billiards stick that catches the corn rowed figure in the face.

A stalky Viper sporting a thick gold rope around his bulging neck steps over the du-ragged soldier from before, his gun pointed directly at Blaine.

Blaine slides forward, landing both feet in a drop kick motion against the square build. Then holding up the steering wheel as a shield, bursts through the driver's side, tangling the wheel in between himself and the determined soldier.

Several shots ring out as Blaine forces the gun hand away from its target, slamming the boorish body into the car frame behind them. He then grabs the wheel between both hands, lifting it upward and cracking it against the heavy jawline, following it quickly with another two handed swipe of the wheel across the full face, laying out the enforcer just in time for another soldier's approach.

He swings his hand outward, allowing the momentum of the gesture to whip the wheel out and smash into the figure's nose, then brandished the impromptu weapon like a nun-chuck, slinging it upwards into another Viper's chin, causing the lithe body to shoot backward and hit the ground hard enough for dust to conjure and fly about in a puff of coated smoke.

"Hell no, dude! Get this muthafucka!"

The same voice rings out from somewhere to his right, but he has no time to deduce the source as a fist flies past his face, followed quickly by another unsuccessful strike.

Blaine unleashes a round kick to the soldier's stomach, buckling the figure into a hunched position. Spying another attacker closing in, he rolls over the buckled soldier's back, and runs full speed toward a nearby dumpster while the newest Viper gives chase.

He pushes off of the metal material with his foot, the motion merging into a back flip that clears the head of the determined Viper who stumbles into the dumpster, Blaine now facing the back of the Viper's sweat soaked, red undershirt.

As the undershirt sporting soldier turns to face Blaine, he's met by an expertly executed spinning back kick that knocks the wind from his body, the man choking and gasping as he slumps to the ground. Sensing the newly recovered soldier whose back he'd rolled off of rushing at them, he ducks, steadying his shoulders against the soldier's lower body. This causes the Viper to succumb to a launched somersault, flipping over Blaine like a rag doll and landing harshly on his broad back.

Blaine commits a forward somersault, slamming his heel into the fallen Viper's stomach in the form of a heavy leg drop that draws the breath out of the stalky character. He attempts to roll backwards off of his victim, but is caught mid-retreat, strong arms holding his legs and leaving the upper half of his body incapable of defense as he dangles upside down.

He has no time to work out a counter-attack as he feels himself spun like a carousel by his legs alone and rocketed over the hood of another car face first.

He hisses at the pain in his back at the assault, barely missing the bat coming down against the side car door, a strike aimed directly at his head. Another blow that dents the side with a crunching noise that thankfully misses its mark again, and Blaine uses the steering wheel to crack the newest assailant across the hand, then kicks the soldier in the back of the leg sending him onto his knees. Blaine then manages to grip the bat and bring it against the guy's throat, crushing it in place from behind.

"STOP! Back up! I said back up! NOW!"

Blaine has the bat secured in place in a potentially lethal position, holding both ends of the bat from behind as the metal compressed against the dark-skinned neck. He forces the soldier to stand as he brings himself to his feet. The others are all in a combined state of righting themselves as well, or slowly meandering forward, guns pointed.

"What makes you think I give a fuck if you kill that foo?"

"C-c'mon Az, don't do me like that man -"

"Shut up!" Blaine cries while bucking the metal more tightly into the throat.

The one called Az, a rotund but impressive figure holding a nine millimeter at eye level as he points it at Blaine, huffs, biting his bottom lip in anticipation. He had thick lips, surrounded by a clean goatee, his round face currently scrunched up in a death-glare. Blaine recognizes his voice as the one that'd been shouting out orders since he'd first infiltrated their space.

"Look. I know about the Vipers. You have my respect. I didn't mean to bust through here like I did. I only crashed in here 'cause I was duckin' from wall crawlers. I mean you could kill me, I get it. But not before I'd break his neck. And if word gets out that some white boy came in here and took out one of your own, under your watch - without a weapon even - what do you think's gonna happen to your reputation? That respect that you put all that work in to earn? Hell, then every other gang is gonna think this territory will be easy pickin's. If one little white boy can come in so easily like that."

Az seems to hesitate, his eyes darting from Blaine to the ground, then back again. He adjusts his grip on the gun, then slowly lowers it.

"Leave. Before I change my mind. White boy."

Blaine guides the man forward, then slips the bat away, holding it at the ready by his side. The soldier gasps before hitting the ground on his knees, his hands clasping over his throat protectively as he chokes in the air that he'd be struggling to get before.

"Thanks," Blaine nods, taking several steps backward with his eyes still trained ahead on the leader called Az. After backing up a fairly safe distance, he takes off at full speed, bat gripped tightly in one hand, and the steering wheel dangling from the other.

The thought of finding Carson specifically to kill him is now at the forefront of his mind.

* * *

**A/N**: Slow coming I know. Life in all of its time consuming wonders. Hope you enjoyed it. I know it flip flopped a bit in terms of POV, from Blaine to Carson, then back to Blaine. I'll probably do that throughout the story, switching up POV, perhaps sometimes with Kurt too, so hopefully it wasn't too confusing. Please review! Your feedback and all definitely keeps me invested in continuing.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Long while. I'm already knowin'. This one displays some sexual disturbance/assaultive behavior so just a warning. Otherwise, enjoy!

* * *

His mouth tasted like blood.

At least he thinks it does. He wasn't exactly unfamiliar with the copper flavor at this point, but the room is slightly blurred, and his heart is hammering out of control, so he could be imagining it.

Those were the body reactions that signal the normalcy that has become his existence; what he's grown used to: being high as all hell and struggling to maintain realistic awareness. Reality blurring into fantastical imagery, mocking him until the crazy wears off, and reminds him that he was in fact still here. Imprisoned. Soulless.

That his life wasn't his anymore.

It belonged to Goolie. Like a possession of his. Because that's what his life was now - a fucking possession; a play thing that was easily set aside on the shelf when his tormentor got bored.

He was his Bitch in every sense of the word, literally sleeping on the floor and kissing his boot heels at every opportune moment.

He basically stayed numb, and tried to stop thinking. That was the only way. That was the one thing he had some tiny semblance of control over. His survival, really.

He used to try to fight. Hard, and unrelenting, and with every bit of himself that he could muster in between exhaustion and fear.

But he learned that every scream, every kick, would just be met by more pain, and a heavier cocktail of dope that rendered him incapable of fighting. Destroying who he was, moment by moment.

So it was easier to give in. It was easier to pretend that he wasn't even there.

There were voices he thinks, now. Echoing, almost.

"We have them where we want 'em. By the balls. Just like this delicious little shit stain."

Kurt feels his head being tilted up, a familiar hand gripping his chin.

"Ain't that right, baby?"

He can't focus, let alone move. The distinct laughter cuts into him, and his head is being made to nod, the hand forcing it up and down like a marionette puppet. He feels exactly like that - like a puppet. Always kept at arms length, always chained up by the ankle to Goolie's desk, or whatever fixture they deemed plausible for the day as if he was connected to iron strings.

"See. Even my sweet cock swallower agrees. We just have to wait 'em out. They'll negotiate. They have no choice. We're in possession of something that's too important."

His head is suddenly rocked to the side by a stinging slap. The red substance trickles free into a blooming puddle on the floor. Huh. So he _was_ bleeding after all.

"Um - but, Boss. What if they don't?"

"What's that?"

Even through his haze he could still feel Goolie's eyes boring into his broken frame sprawled across the office floor; the chain slicing into his ankle like a blade with its tight constriction.

"I mean - what if they don't. Like - negotiate, or whatever. What do you wanna do?"

There's a pause, and then Goolie's voice re-emerges; a little more quiet, and a lot more menacing.

"You see. It's shit like that, that lets me know how fucking retarded you truly are, D. Of course they're gonna fucking negotiate. They. Have. No. Choice. It's not an option. We have something of there's that can destroy an entire fucking city. Take out entire blocks, man. Turn them and a shit ton of people into fucking dust that's carried off into the fucking wind. We all know that. It's just a question of _when_ they give in."

Kurt is drifting, but the sounds around him are still audible. The sniffing sounds, repetitive and well practiced; he knows it's the detrimental sound of Goolie snorting up his usual fix.

Which always meant bad news for him.

"Ah. Now. Dealing with your mind boggling stupidity has got me all wound up. I think I need to get sorted out. So take a hike."

Kurt manages to bring his head up, just enough to glimpse the large figure's hesitation... Big D. It was mostly always him who was there; coming back and forth and having regular exchanges with the bronze skinned psycho manning the ornate desk.

"Goolie. I don't know man. He - um. He don't look good. He's bleedin' and everything. Maybe I should clean him up. Give him a break for a bit, y'know?"

"You must be going def. And if that's the case - I may have to make room for a new Lieutenant. I don't fuck with handicapped people. Retards maybe. But I don't have much use for the disabled. So, I'll repeat - slowly, so you don't miss it."

Kurt winces at the clicking sound, the hammer of Goolie's revolver being pulled back permeating the atmosphere. The cool metal gleaming under the natural lighting from the overhead skylight as it's pointed directly at the broad chest standing across from him.

"Take. A, fucking. Hike."

Big D chances one last glance down at Kurt, his brown eyes bright with something - maybe sympathy, and heavy jaw clenched like a vice as he nods with a scarcely notable reluctance, turning on his heel for the door.

"And besides, I have something perfect for him that'll staunch the bleeding. It's big, and it likes to have pretty mouths wrapped around it to keep it warm. Like a winter coat. Only wet."

Big D slopes toward the door, pulling it open with a considerable yank.

"Oh and D?"

The massive man turns, barely masking the underlying discord behind warm eyes.

"Make sure I'm not disturbed. I'll check back with you in a few hours."

A succinct nod, the door shutting back into place, and then they were alone.

"Alone at last, eh, little Dove?"

His head is whipped back, a fierce grip dragging him into a sitting position by his hair. Goolie pats his cheek with a heavy hand, the blood trail from his lip smearing over Goolie's finger tips.

"Look at me. Already hard for you. See what you do to me?"

Kurt can barely keep his eyes open; can't even manage to display the cringe he feels inside himself when Goolie licks the blood from his digits with a leud, satisfied smack.

The shuffling of that fucking gold robe, a snap of a waistband, and Goolie's hard on is pressed into Kurt's cheek, the cock trailing over his bloodied lip like a fleshy lipstick.

"You use any teeth, I bust them out of your mouth. You pull off before I cum, I'll make sure some of my thirstiest hounds get a piece of your tight little ass and drown you in a river of their spunk. Now make your useless, likely dead brother proud, and suck my dick, baby Hummel."

Before he forces his mind to go blank, he thinks of him... He thinks of Carson. He doesn't cry about it anymore. He's starting to come to the conclusion that everything, even hoping, was simply pointless.

* * *

Not a lot of people came in the day.

That's what Carson was counting on at least. The fact that for a convenient store, it was only deemed convenient for the night crowd.

He was aware of what was behind the back shelves; knew the underground world that lie behind the breaded sweets and horrible packaged desserts getting stale on the moderately stocked shelves.

There wasn't much he didn't know about the District. Even its dirtiest, most high-end secrets.

That, plus he sort of had an in regarding that particular intel, and he was hoping that said 'in' would be here now.

The pinging of the door bell felt like an alarm to him. He quickly trailed to the front counter, trying to seem as casual as he could while still adorning those orange jump suit pants. He'd long lost the upper portion to the heat, peeling it down and letting it hang over his waste; the sleeves knotted to keep it in place.

The middle aged Asian man barely glanced over his magazine before returning to it, the Gossip pages hiding the sneer that Carson knew was still present; the man's brain likely speeding through suitable solutions to the problem now standing before him.

"What are you doing in my store?" The man drawls with a seemingly bored temperament.

"Hello, Mr. Chang. I was wondering if Mike was here?"

"He's out," he practically growls from behind the rectangular book housing pictorial splashes of celebrity news.

"Um - right. Do you know when he'll be back?"

"No. He's on a delivery run."

"Right. Okay."

Carson was feeling the desperation sweeping over him, mounting with every passing second. He stood stock still, his mind whirring with alternative means to fix his situation; buy himself time for more planning.

"What is it that you want with my son exactly?"

Stillness, just a voice projecting past the blockade that was the magazine. Carson wasn't stupid enough to ask directly. Mr. Chang articulates despite Carson's failure to clarify.

"You come into my store, asking for my son. You think you're the only one in the District who knows things, Carson Hummel? I'm not a stupid man. I haven't been running this operation for as long as I have on idiocy and pure luck. You're supposed to be a memory last I heard."

A swift turn of the page, casual; a contradiction to the calculating words escaping in a monotone voice.

"Locked away for a long enough time for me to have nearly adult grandchildren by then. And now you're not. You're all the sudden here. Standing here at my establishment, wearing what one would deem a uniformed tracking device with how much it stands out, in hopes of what exactly? I don't know. But I'm rather annoyed with the extra work you've just given me, as I'll have to take out this current video recording, and erase the portion you're in to ensure any wall crawlers or _others_ who may come looking know that you're just a ghost, and were never around."

Carson has no words. Mr. Chang finally allows the magazine to fall below his eyeline.

"So I ask again - what do you want?"

He was hoping that Mike could give him a place to stay off the streets for a bit. A place where he could lay low and collect his thoughts. But he doesn't dare voice the request or his intentions aloud. Not now, anyway.

They had an understanding, Mike and him, almost bordering an actual friendship if you will. The guy had somehow become maybe the only other person Carson actually trusted outside of his twin brother. He and Mike had both attended school together before Carson had dropped out. They didn't see each other much afterward, especially since Mike had been recruited by his dad to work at the store full time after graduating.

Plus Mr. Chang tended to rule Mike's life with an iron fist, deeming Carson just another street kid with a bad reputation, who was looking to influence his son into being just another statistic; a lost soul amongst a city of many.

Carson was never ballsy enough to point out the irony of Mr. Chang basically housing an underground strip club and gambling spot for a variety of the worst scum the District had to offer, below his store. Sure he wasn't exactly the owner, but his store served as its location; the gateway to the same things he turned up his traditional nose at.

He didn't voice it, but he knew that honor was important to the Chang's, and that despite the means in which they made a comfortable living, Mr. Chang was doing it for his family; to uphold their traditions, their pride, and maintain a decent livelihood. Sort of like Carson had done for Kurt. He could respect that.

"Nothing. Nothing, sir. I apologize for any inconvenience. I'd appreciate it if you'd let Mike know I stopped by."

"Hmm," Mr. Chang hums non-committedly, disappearing behind the magazine cover once again.

Carson huffs, running his hand through his sweat slickened strands, and turns to leave, hating the pinging he's expecting to hear at his exit; the thing signaling the swift termination of probably his only real chance at being able to stay off Goolie's radar.

"Hummel?"

He turns back, foot on the cusp of the store's threshold. There's a silence ringing with tension, and then the sound of Mr. Chang's long winded exhale.

"See Johnny in the back by the refrigerated section. He'll provide you with something to wear, and a host who can house you for today. But _today_ only. If I hear of any trouble, I'll find you personally. You know I can."

Carson blinks, uncertain in trusting this sudden development. He thinks momentarily of divulging that he only really needs a few hours, but thinks better of elaborating.

The magazine stays in place, like an impenetrable steel cage.

"I've never forgotten what you've done for my son. And a Chang always repays what he owes. Now I suggest you vanish Ghost."

Carson swallows. "T-thank you."

No response, just the whistling of a song he recognized from when his dad was alive, slapping the second hand radio they kept in the apartment in hopes of the static subsiding long enough to make out the tune. Whistling and a rustle of the magazine pages was Mr. Chang's final say.

He'd always did have respect for the guy, despite him seemingly hating Carson on principle. Mostly because he recognized the love Mr. Chang carried for his son. The love he remembers once existed between himself and his own dad before life had drop kicked him in the chest, leaving him broken and gasping for air that wouldn't come.

* * *

**A/N**: So I'm aware that my apologies at this point probably feel as stale as the Hostess snacks chilling on Mr. Chang's store shelves for the long in between time of each chap, lol. It's always the same reasons... basically work, and in this latest case getting sick and work. But I'm also working on another story (my second Puckurt attempt) as well, so busyness all around. I love you guys, those who are actually reading this and reviewing for staying dedicated. I officially haven't seen the movie that inspired this story in so long I've forgotten the details, so I'm honestly just winging it and writing my own stuff at this point. It's bordering dark now. Yay me! Reviews are needed, like Goolie's dope to his nostril. Like a show of faith that makes me go, 'huh, so this may be worth finishing then.' Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: Warning for the mention of a violent hate crime.

* * *

He couldn't help but feel like a little kid, tucked in the corner of an alleyway during a neighborhood game of hide and go seek.

Except he was a grown man, donning a ridiculously loud, orange jump suit, and wielding a baseball bat that he was pretty sure had met various skulls during its existence...

Tucked in the corner of an alleyway.

He'd managed to scramble through the side streets, from block to block, mostly undetected or harrassed. Laying low and staying on the move seemed to keep any sets of soldiers or wasters off his ass. At least for now.

It was likely a help that he was still holding onto the bat. His other hand unfortunately, was still shackled to that damn steering wheel.

He still had the overwhelming desire to use Hummel's face for batting practice, but in the mean time, he had to focus on the job at hand. The guy did get him inside the District without him being dimed off as a cop. Well, not to anyone outside of Hummel that is.

So with that thought plaguing his brain, he put his anger on the back burner in favor of making a much needed phone call to headquarters; bribing some Hype with a cell phone to be able to make a quick call.

He was admittedly relieved when a familiar black car pulled up approximately half an hour after their brief phone conversation.

The tinted passenger side window rolls down, and a gaunt face, with heavy lidded eyes, and a balding cranium, shoots him an amused expression.

"Don't you look beautiful. Nice forehead gash."

"Fuck off Lieutenant. Sir." Blaine adds as an after thought. Lieutenant Briggs chuckles in response, then hands him a plastic bag containing folded clothes, a pair of shoes, and what looks to be a cell phone.

"What, no Bazooka?"

"Mayor's orders. I can't give you a firearm."

"Course not. Can you at least spare a key?" He mutters, holding up his wrist with a twisted grin, the steering wheel dangling; the physical representation of irony.

"Should I ask?"

Blaine rolls his eyes, the grin crimpling into a thin line. Lieutenant Briggs, shakes his head while suppressing an obvious show of mirth. He digs out a small key, handing it over to Blaine, who makes quick work of unfastening the cuffs, throwing them along with the wheel in the corner of the alley behind some old crates. He flicks the key back to Briggs.

"You're supposed to be hob-knobbing with the baddies. Speaking of, any word on Hummel's whereabouts?" Briggs asks coolly.

"I doubt he's taking the time to stick around. Probably holed up somewhere working on getting fake identification, and getting miles away from here while he can."

"C'mon Anderson. You read the kid's file - "

"Yeah. And he's just a low life, slimy, fucking thief, is what he is. Nothing new there."

"But you forget. The reason he was locked in the can in the first place."

Blaine eyes Briggs warily.

"For nearly killing a patrol officer. The Captain if I recall right. I read the file, Briggs. I _can_ actually read you know."

Briggs glowers over at him, sighing that annoying as all hell sigh that meant that Blaine was missing something that was supposed to be obvious.

"He claims to have been trying to protect his brother. Some undercover thing that he collaborated on with Druegen and his boys, which ended with his twin brother supposedly being kidnapped by Goolie," Briggs elaborates, eying Blaine for that moment of sudden understanding. Blaine seriously loathed when he did this shit. It's not as if time wasn't of the essence.

"Sorry but I'm gonna need you to skip to the point here, Briggs. I'm sort of on a tight schedule with keeping a government sanctioned weapon of mass destruction from blowing a hole into this side of the state."

Briggs' scowl is no less intense, and full of that incredulous scrutiny that sets Blaine's teeth on edge.

"You want to find that kid? Well you already know where he's gonna be. At least, where he's planning to be," Lieutenant Brigg's states cryptically. He then gets that michievous gleam in his dark eyes that usually symbolized some sort of out of the box conclusion.

Blaine can't help the grim smile that overtakes his mouth when the Lieutenant hands him a tiny twenty-two calibur pistol: a Smith and Wesson J-Frame, small enough to keep stowed against his ankle, underneath a sock.

"What they don't know won't hurt 'em," and then he edges out a quick sentiment. "Get back in one piece, Anderson. You're too good at what you do for me to lose just yet."

"Yeah. Will do." He retorts, watching as the black sedan slinks around the corner, disappearing along the edge of an apartment with a heavily graffittied front entrance, bolstering several rival gangs tag signatures.

He ducks back into the narrow alleyway, which luckily hadn't been occupied by any overly ambitious Saints, the prostitutes lingering in between corners and blow jobs for snatches of down time; or any drugged up Hypes, barely clinging to consciousness and pining for the next fix. He'd stumbled upon the perfect spot, at apparently the perfect time.

He dressed fast, dumping the orange threads behind the same nearby crate he'd stowed the steering wheel and cuffs. He then secures the handgun against the side of his calf underneath the fresh sock.

As he's kneeling, situating the pistol, it clicks.

Carson had said he was off to tangle with a Kingpin. Blaine just didn't believe in that moment that he was sincerely off to face the District's biggest source of evil completely without help.

But one thing he'd learned about the kid, was that he was cunning, and obviously determined enough to go it alone.

That going it alone wasn't uncommon for him from what he'd read over in the file. He'd never been known to be affiliated with any gangs, and hadn't been involved in anything really heavy other than some small time numbers gig, and petty theft.

And that he loved his brother. Probably more than himself if he was willing to face Goolie under those circumstances. That much was clear.

He slides the cell phone inside his back pocket, and then starts jogging, uncertain of how this was going to play out. Hell, uncertain of what he was going to do at all really. But knowing that whatever it was, he needed to find and reconvene with the same bastard who'd left him behind in enemy territory merely hours before.

Irony really could be a bitch.

* * *

The wall clock was ticking; the only sound infiltrating the quiet enveloped in the quaint apartment.

It wasn't much. Just a small Junior bedroom, with a decent couch, and a tiny kitchenette complete with an old stove, and unimpressive refrigerator.

It was homey, though. Lived in. Almost bubbly, really. Like it belonged to someone who still saw some good in the world, or at least dared to try. Someone who was clinging to the love of family, not independence. Not something one would associate with its owner by right; at least not based on her lifestyle.

She was a stripper. He didn't think of them as the type to have suede or cloth couchs. More like leather, satin, and a lot of dark hues meant to remind them of the dark prospects that was their day to day interaction.

She was perched up on a stool, knees pressed up to her chest as if she was enacting a ball of some sort. Her hair was damp, draping over her shoulders in crinkled waves, fresh from her recent shower; her petite body clad in an overlarge sweater that looked hand crocheted. Weirdly enough, her brown eyes reminded him of the apartment... kind of warm, yet plain.

"So how do you know Mr. Chang?"

Carson looks up from the glass coffee table he'd been staring at; watching his reflection as if he could somehow see Kurt in it. Johnny, Mr. Chang's nephew, had hooked him up with a pair of khakis and a lightweight thermal that despite its wispy material, felt sort of smothering.

"I don't."

"Yes, you do. He would never have asked me to do this if you didn't."

"Does it matter? I won't be here long."

She tightens her posture, small hands gripping her forearms in a tangled jail of limbs.

"No. I suppose it doesn't."

The silence ensues, and Carson's mind regains speed; jamming up with scenarios and plots on how he was going to have to approach getting into Goolie's headquarters. That damn clock keeps ticking like a miniature heart.

"I think I've seen you before."

Carson sighs audibly. He guesses the girl can't take a hint.

"You know Mike, right? Mr. Chang's son."

He eyes her, knowing instinctively that she's already set on continuing no matter how obvious he makes it that he'd rather she shut her mouth.

"Used to. A long time ago." He drawls.

"He's really nice. He always does nice things, I mean. Walks some of the girls to their cars when the club closes, or gives them free waters and snacks in between shows. He's a nice guy. Not that I see too many of those."

"Right."

There's a beat, and then she quietly changes position, her stiff countenance loosening as her legs unclench and drift toward the floor.

"Yeah. I remember now. My dad was dropping me off - a piano lesson or something, and I saw you. You and him. Standing on the corner waiting for the light to turn. He was laughing a lot. Your hair was a little bit longer then."

Carson's gaze trails past her, looking at the photos tacked on the eggshell walls that all of the sudden became more interesting. He plucks up the framed shot sitting on the edge of the coffee table of her - a much younger version - and two men, sandwiched together as a happy trio; a family photo it seemed. One man was light-skinned, possibly biracial, with light brown eyes and an easy smile. The other was about the same age. Olive colored with a calculating air, and a wise pair of greenish eyes that bordered haunting.

"Who's this? Your dad and a distant Uncle or something?"

"No. They were my dads. Both of them. They were married to each other. Well, as married as two gay men behind the wall can be since gay marriage isn't legal here. And we were a family."

She says it cautiously at first, but then seems to lose herself, her eyes staring at the photo in his hand as the words sort of tumbled out. Her brown irises burn with sadness.

"Were?"

"They're gone."

"Oh. Sorry, about that."

"You don't know me. Why should you be?"

He puts the frame down carefully, a renewed sense of caring making him aware of how delicate, and valuable this simple picture actually is to the girl.

"You took me in. You didn't have to."

"No. I suppose I didn't. But you seem, alright. A bit broody. But, okay. So why are you running? Drug deal gone bad? Piss off the wrong soldiers or something?"

"What makes you think I'm running?"

"The fact that you're here. People who need to hide out are usually people running away from something. I figure you're a soldier. Maybe the Cedar Boys, or the Slayers. You look like you could maybe be a Slayer. So why are you running?"

"I'm not - at least, not away. Not exactly. More like running _to_ something. Unfinished business that I have to take care of. So did they leave you? Get doped up and forget to pack you up with them or something?" He asks nonchalantly.

She seems to close off, her eyes finding the thin carpet for a moment before speaking again.

"You didn't get upset."

"What?"

"When I told you they were together. Most people don't like that kind of thing. Some hate it, even. But you didn't say anything."

"What was I s'pose to say?"

"I could think of a book's worth of things you could've said. Point is, you didn't."

Carson leans back into the sofa, watching her as if she was suddenly going to sprout wings. She was... weird, this girl.

"My brother's gay. I don't judge. And I ain't a soldier. I just do what I have to."

She looks up at him then, as if she'd come to terms with something; eyes bright with unshed tears.

"They were out picking up milk and some of my favorite cereal. These little honey clusters, with funny shapes like moons and stars and stuff. They found their bodies two blocks from Mr. Chang's store - the place where they'd gotten the groceries from. They'd been dead in an alley for three days before anyone cared enough to come forward. Beaten to death. They'd spray painted the word 'Faggots' over their bodies in red paint. They thought it was blood at first. But - red paint. It was red paint."

Fuck.

She wipes at her eyes as if they'd betrayed her; rough and with a hint of malice.

"Where's your brother?" She voices with a quiet determination. An attempt he knew was meant to overcompensate for her random confession.

He hesitates.

"The place I'm running to."

She nods, still wiping at her eyes, and stalks over to the miniscule kitchen, turning the knobs on the oven and placing a metal tea kettle over the subtle flames.

"I'm making tea. Want a cup?"

"Tell me your real name." Carson blurts out.

She squares her shoulders, looking back at him with an expression peaking with challenge.

"One thing about having a gay brother, I know that any sensible gay man would cringe at naming their kid after an object - which a diamond definitely is. That's what my brother Kurt would say anyway."

He thinks he glimpses a barely there smile.

"Rachel. It's Rachel Berry."

"Rachel Berry. Yeah. I'd like a cup."

Carson smiles to himself, quietly watching her dote over cleaning out an extra mug.

* * *

**A/N**: So this was more of a filler chap. A place for a little character development and my introduction to some Hummelberry potential! Reviews please.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**: This one's lengthy and has a tad bit of everything... some violence, some other stuff... anyway, enjoy!

* * *

"You're not serious."

He doesn't respond, just lets the fact that he's currently standing up and righting himself for the eventual exit do the talking.

"Carson. C'mon, you're not serious."

"I shouldn't have told you. But I did. So just forget it. It's better for everybody involved."

"There is nobody involved," Rachel screeches, feet contacting the floor as she slips easily from the stool in a state of outrage. "That's just it. It's only _you_. You can't do this -"

"What choice do I have? Tell me, Rachel? What else do I do?"

He's instantly regretting his loose lips. Why in the hell he divulged what might've been his entire history he wasn't particularly sure. He supposed it was due to feeling a sense of comfort with this girl that he hadn't felt in years with anyone. Maybe he'd just kept too much pent up with no one who really cared to listen before. Maybe somewhere deep down, he knew what he was going to be going up against, and wanted at least one person to know his side - to know his truth before the end. Hell should he know? - but that's how they'd spent the last few hours... Just talking and listening - no expectations or agenda.

She looks mutinous. Her lips drawn in a tight line, hands wringing together, and brown eyes searing with the unspoken words fueled by fear. But he knows that she understands despite her obvious resentment of the situation; of the undeniable resignation in his voice.

She was desperately searching for a retort. But there just wasn't one to be said.

"I told you, the cops - anyone who could actually do something... they're all in it with him. They're the ones who locked me up and threw away the fuckin' key. It's been nearly half a year. Kurt's been there with that fuckin' crazy son of a bitch for half a fuckin' year, Rachel. And nobody's gonna do anything. Nobody cares. And I won't... I _can't_ let him stay. Not for another day. Not for another minute."

"So you run off to face him by yourself? You're just gonna end up getting killed. That, or getting caught and thrown in there with him. You know the things they say about Goolie. He'll break you completely. Don't do this."

He's already walking toward the door. He halts, his back facing her. "I'll risk it. For him - for my family... I'll risk it."

The finality of his tone was striking. The type of monotonous growl that wasn't to be questioned. When the room continues to buzz with their silence, he reaches out and grabs the handle of the front door.

"Carson?"

He turns, hand still clutching the door knob as he catches her eye.

"I just... I know I don't know you. But is there anything... Is there a-anything I can say to change your mind?"

The hushed tone is bordering a plea.

It's strange. Somehow he recognizes it. He can somehow discern the underlying wording buried carefully beneath the statement. Sort of felt like the promise of something that just couldn't be. Something laced with the prospects of normalcy, and good living. Something that felt so much bigger than their brief acquaintanceship warranted.

He feels the unfamiliar tug at the corner of his lips; a grim pull reminiscent of some past version of himself who still believed in two parent households, and skipping to school at the tender age of six with a fresh pair of sneakers, and all the naive pride of showing them off. No worries, no fear. No real sense of what it truly meant to be a resident behind the Wall.

"Just tell me good luck."

Her eyes are shimmering beautifully, an ironic sting of emotion that was so out of place, it could've been the crack of a heavy fist across his jaw. They hardly knew each other. He wasn't worth the tears.

"I won't." She whispers. Then mutters softly, "Will I... I won't see you again. Will I?"

His hand tightens, white knuckles beaming with the ferocity of his grip on the worn handle.

"I don't do promises. They're pointless... Behind the Wall anyway. Take care of yourself Rachel. And thanks."

He unclasps the lock, steps out and closes the door with an audible click, automatically sinking back into his survival persona; the skin that he'd unknowingly shed from his shoulders while in the odd girl's company, reknitting itself over him like a woven cloak that was anything but the delicate fabric that it should be...

More like steel: impenetrable, and solid. His armor.

He's decided. He knows that this is probably the last time he'll ever get to decide something so big on his own. That this moment was reflective of everything he'd become, and everything he likely would never get a chance to be - handing himself over to chance really. He would have to be beyond his best to even remotely come close to accomplishing his horribly inept, improbable, and yes - downright insane - plot.

He walks swiftly from the small apartment complex comprised of only four units, Rachel's being on the second story to the furthest left, depending on where you were standing when facing the building of course.

Carson's tramping along the edge of the sidewalk now, moving like a shadow as he makes his way toward the core of this shitty place... Makes his way to the man who'd stolen his life countless times over.

By the time he makes it to Stauler Avenue, the adrenaline surges forcefully knowing that he's only mere blocks away from the point of no return. Despite the fierce pumping of his heart, he wills himself to slow down, to be patient.

But he hears it, the sound that signalled immediate bull shit to come, so he melts into the wall, listening.

"I'm tellin' you. We should just trash the fuckin' place. I didn't like that Towel-head's fuckin' tone. He acts like he's too fuckin' good or somethin'. I mean - fuck, he's servicing me. Hell this is our block, man. _I'm_ the one lettin' him do business here."

He peaks around the corner, eying the small group loitering just outside the liquor store. There were about four of them. All of them sporting burnt out, tattered white wife beaters, thin black suspenders either hanging off their wastes or just off the shoulder, and tan skin illustrating dark Irish descent and varying pools of Caucasian ethnicity. Cedar Boys... definitely.

Carson had been lucky so far, skimming through territories unseen due to his thorough knowledge of adjacent back alleyways and presumable barricades that were actually short cuts, connecting each area of the District. But he knew his luck was feeble at best, hence his current situation: potentially facing off with a very small faction of the Cedar Boy crew.

"Carson."

His eyes widen. He slaps a hand over her mouth, pulling her to the side opposite him.

"Rachel - what the fuck?"

She slaps at his hand, causing him to relinquish his hold. She scrambles back, looking wildly affronted.

"I wasn't gonna let you -"

"Shhh. Fuck - Pipe down!"

"Don't shush me! I'm not a five year old. I wasn't gonna just let you go. Not like that!"

"Rachel. You need to go home. Now."

"Oh yeah? Well it's too late. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

"Will you keep your fuckin' voice down?!" He whispers frantically. "Jesus. What did you follow me the whole fuckin' way?"

"Of course I followed you. Did you think I teleported in some sort of - I don't know - a stripper time warp or something?"

He bit down the traitorous chuckle that threatened to spill from his mouth. This was anything but the time and place for that. Instead, he compensated by way of shooting a venomous scowl in its place; concentrating all of his frustration into scaring her into submission.

"I'm not asking you again. I'm telling you - get lost."

"Hey baby. That fuckin' pussy over there givin' you a hard time? I'll get rid of him for you. Show you a real _hard_ time, if ya know what I mean, eh."

"Fuck," Carson hisses, closing his eyes at the sound of their jeering; a bubbling energy akin to a snake pit being riled up and released for the hunt pulsating behind him.

They'd managed to emerge into the group's immediate line of sight. Carelessly abandoning pretense just enough to have fallen into plain view, no longer shrouded by the building's edge.

"We're fine," Rachel bites out, refocusing her attention back onto Carson.

"You sure as hell are. Can't say the same for that pasty lookin' fag hasselin' you though."

Carson had his back turned to them, mentally tallying the sound of the footsteps as they cluttered in a heap of thudding rubber, slowly approaching.

"Is it all four?"

"What?"

"Are all four of them coming?"

"Y-yes," she murmurs back. "We can just go -"

"Too close. They'll catch us. Just follow my lead."

"Yo! I'm talking to you Casper. You should step aside. Let a real man handle this one."

He glimpses the sudden fire in the brown orbs, alight with a palpable disdain as she steps forward.

"Look, my boyfriend and I are fine."

Fucking hell. The boyfriend line never worked. This was looking promising. Great she's still going...

"You obviously don't know how to accept a 'no', so let me make it more clear. I don't want the kind of help you seem to be offering. I'm more than okay in that department."

It was too late, the warning lingering on his tongue no longer plausible, or necessary. Rachel had blown right past treading lightly, rocketing straight into the glaring red danger zone.

"Your boyfriend? Oh so you must be a lesbo then right? Judgin' by the looks of that dyke standin' next to you."

"Trust me, I'd rather eat a river of pussy then go anywhere near your baby sized cock that you probably couldn't get up if I stuck it in a vacuum cleaner. Now please - just walk away."

Wow. Didn't take her for the mouthy type. Well, at least when it came to facing a potential beat down. God knows the girl could talk up a storm in casual conversation. He would approve if it wasn't for the current uneven numbers and weapon wielding potential of the situation.

"Fuck, she told you man," a raspy voice comments somewhere to the right of the supposed leader. The other worthless looking soldiers only too happy to validate her retort with their burgeoning laughter, and shouts of appraisal and instigation. No, if they had something, he was sure they would've already pulled it out by now. Cut a smile across Carson's lips with a blade, and then run a train on her before putting a bullet in her skull. But then again, they weren't known for being the brightest bulbs in the pack.

Carson readies himself for the attack he knows is coming.

"You fuckin' slut!"

But before Carson can blink - hell, before the greasy looking bastard can bring down the hand he'd raised in threat of a back handed blow, a dainty foot meets his balls in a perfectly aimed kick, causing him to slump over with an agonized groan.

Carson flashes a side kick to the guy's head with his right foot, bowling him over easily, and turns into a spinning back heel kick with the left foot that catches the one with the weezy, wolf rasp square in the jaw, laying him out instantly.

A bean pole of a soldier steps up, and throws a wild punch for his face. Carson ducks out of the way, landing a shot to his rib cage, then another hook splitting the lanky dude's lip on impact. As the guy falls back, Carson snatches off his suspenders, winding them around his hand and letting the buckled portion hang from his grip like darkened sinew.

The last one standing has managed to bear hug Rachel from behind, squeezing her like a stuffed toy as if attempting to crack her spine in half.

"Argh! L-let me go - OW!"

The long haired man answers by squeezing harder, licking the side of her face for good measure like some psychotic game of dare; eying Carson while he did it with a glare that was purely meant to beckon him onward, cajole Carson into acting at the risk of him breaking her.

He looks at her, willing her to calm down, stay focused. He could see the vaguely dazed look on the fucker's face that gave away his stupidity like the cheat sheet to a test.

"Now would be the time to _actually _follow me lead. Listen to my voice. His foot - stomp - now!"

She does, crushing the heel of her shoe into the thin materialed Chuck Taylor shoe, causing the bear hugger to cry out in pain.

"Duck!"

She ducks down as instructed, and he flings the suspender buckle outward, catching the bastard right in the teeth. He then wastes no time in slicing the air with a roundhouse that bolsters enough force to shoot him downward with its intensity, and completely levels the matted head. He lands on his hands to ensure that he doesn't eat concrete, fighting the urge to curse aloud at the pain shooting up his wrist at the forceful landing.

He knows that he's probably broken his wrist, or at least sprained it even worse than it had already been before.

He crawls back up, slowly standing as he holds his limp wrist to his chest. He quickly assesses the scene, all four soldiers in varied states of disarray, each one bleeding from one orifice or another, and grappling through a haze of stars to right themselves in a vain attempt no doubt, to retaliate.

"Now we go. C'mon."

They take off at a moderate pace, dodging between parked cars and disappearing off the main grid into the side streets.

After making it a fair amount of blocks away, they stop to catch their breath, Rachel doubling over and gulping for air.

Carson quickly makes work of wrapping the thin suspenders around his wrist and hand, snapping the buckles into the fabric of his sleeve in order to secure it. He flexes his fingers, examining the hold of the improvised cast.

"How's your wrist?"

Carson waves it off. He changes tact. "I can't believe you thought I could be one of those fuckin' useless pieces of shit. A fuckin' _Cedar Boy_? I'm sure you can see why I'm offended."

Rachel is leaning against the wall, a small smile breaking across her face in reply. He can admit, she looked really pretty when she smiled; brown eyes sparkling and lips tinged with a soft pinkish hue, a color too light and warm to be associated with the night life - the one where she likely hides behind a painted red color that reminds you of blood, and eyes darkened and blown open with a cool veil of a sultry, forbidden, desire that if one looked hard enough, recognized as a forced disconnect.

"I also recall saying the Slayers too."

"A step up. A small one. But a step up. We just were lucky they weren't packin' anything. And by the way, when someone says follow their lead, it's probably a good idea to actual try _following them, _instead of aggravating the people threatening you by running your big mouth."

"Well we get out of there didn't we?"

"Yeah," he says dryly. "We did."

"Rachel -"

He doesn't finish. His mouth is too busy responding to hers, small hands gripping his shirt in handfuls as she dominates, kissing hungrily and with abandon.

Teeth clacking, tongues sliding in waves of dominant flesh, and all he can manage to do is breathe through his nose and hold her tightly to him.

And then she's kissing his throat, and he's picking her up, flipping their positions so she's pinned against the wall, knocking over trash cans and making room for them to devour each other. Her eyes bore into his as she pauses long enough to slide her panties down her toned legs, easily sliding free from the confines of her skirt, biting her lip in anticipation.

"I want this," is all she breathes, voice husky and seeping into his cock like a stimulant.

Carson quickly unzips himself in an almost spastic burst of movement. Her eyes are piercing as she gives him a subtle nod. He growls, lining himself up, and burying himself to the hilt.

"Fuck," she hisses, crying out at his animalistic thrusts. He had a momentary lapse where he allowed the thought of the ridiculousness of the scene to overtake his senses: his khaki pants pooled around his ankles like a little kid first learning to piss, bare assed and facing the open street as he fucked her into the wall.

It's been too long since he'd been with a woman. He bites her neck, savoring her taste as she moans, calling his name like a prayer; words tumbling from her mouth somewhere in between other unintelligible curses and gasps of pleasure.

"God, please - Carson - fuck me! Oh God, yes!"

He's close, his pace frenzied as the sound of slapping flesh assaults the air shared between them.

"Mmm - I'm gonna - I-" He pulls out, cumming on her inner thigh as she vibrates, humming with her own orgasm; her clear wetness sliding into the lines of ivory he's left on her tan thigh as they both cry out in pleasure.

She somehow has taken refuge on the top of one of the trash cans. He swallows, zipping himself up and running his uninjured hand through his brunette hair. He quickly uses his own sleeve to wipe away the remnants of their excursion, thankful that the shirt was in fact white and easily cameoflauged their mingled release.

She jumps down, casually sliding her panties back up.

They're both still breathing hard, Carson's back now pressed into the wall to keep himself from succumbing to losing his footing completely; hair mussed and fingers still lightly skimming her petite waistline.

"W-what was that for?"

"You're a good person. A good man, Carson Hummel."

He lets the grin he'd been concealing slip onto his face.

"You know I still can't take you with me."

She nods quietly, the brown of her irises looking like a burnt honey color up close. They looked wet again. He was pretty sure if she let the tears fall this time, he would brush them away.

"I know. I get it."

But she doesn't cry. Her eyes remain bright, but fail to produce any tracks. She sighs, then steps back, apparently coming to terms with the inevitable.

"I'll know if you're following me this time. So don't. Okay? I need you, more than anything else, to just go home. I... I need to know that you're gonna be okay."

She nods again, then leans up, planting a soft kiss to his cheek.

"I won't say goodbye," she confides.

"Then don't."

"Okay," her voice sounding thin, and too close to tears.

"Keep moving. Duck into the Chang's place on your way if you need to. Just don't stop. They pray on anyone who's alone, or even looks like they could maybe be alone. Be careful."

Another nod, and then she's gone; brown curtain of hair bouncing with the momentum of her stride until it's disappeared along with the lithe figure.

He can still taste her on his tongue. He licks his lips, and tries to refocus.

"Alright Goolie. Ready or not motherfucker."

The alley is empty but for their lingering ghosts, and whispers of left over heat.

* * *

**A/N**: Surprise! A little bit of Hummelberry smut! Yay! Who knew? I ended up enjoying Carson and Rachel's interaction so much last chap, I couldn't resist making this one just about them. I've now completely abandoned the movie at this point, lol. But I'm okay with that since my own brain has been cackling with glee at wherever the hell this is going. Please review, review, review. I'm fighting to keep this going but the lack of readership I admit is effecting my desire to be more invested. Thanks as always to those who are continuing to throw their thoughts out there, following, and favoriting. You're making this story happen and I love ya for it! I hope this one was to your liking.


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